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/ 



THE COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 

By H. DE BALZAC 


SCENES FROM PARISIAN LIFE 


FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DE'VORANTS 
THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN 


BALZAC’S NOVELS. 

Translated by Miss K. P. Wormeley. 


Already Published: 

PERE GORIOT. 

DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 

RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 

COUSIN PONS. 

THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 

THE TWO BROTHERS. 

THE ALKAHEST (La Recherche de TAbsolu). 
MODESTE MIGNON. 

THE MAGIC SKIN (La Peau de Chagrin). 
COUSIN BETTE. 

LOUIS LAMBERT. 

BUREAUCRACY (Les Employes). 
SERAPHITA. 

SONS OP THE SOIL (Les Paysans). 

FAME AND SORROW (Chat-qui-pelote). 
THE LILY OP THE VALLEY. 

URSULA. 

AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY. 

ALBERT SAVARUS. 

BALZAC : A MEMOIR. 

PIERRETTE. 

THE CHOUANS. 

LOST ILLUSIONS. 

A GREAT MAN OP THE PROVINCES IN 
PARIS. 

THE BROTHERHOOD OF CONSOLATION. 
THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 

MEMOIRS OP TWO YOUNG MARRIED 
WOMEN. 

CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI. 

LUCIEN DE RUBEMPRE. 

FERRAGUS, CHIEF OP THE DEVORANTS 
• 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
BOSTON. 



V/" 

HONORE DE BALZAC 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 


FERRAGUS, 

CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS 


THE LAST INCARNATION OF 
VAUTRIN 




ROBERTS BROTHERS 


3 SOMERSET STREET 


BOSTON 

1895 


Ta?. 


Copyright, 1895, 

By Roberts Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 

U. COPY 
SUPPLIED FROM 
COPYRIGHT FILES 
JANUARY. 1911. 


©nibersttg J)res0: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A, 


PREFACE. 


Thirteen men were banded together in Paris under 
the Empire, all imbued with one and the same senti- 
ment, all gifted with sufficient energy' to be faithful to 
the same thought, with sufficient honor among them- 
selves never to betray one another even if their interests 
clashed ; and sufficiently wily and politic to conceal 
the sacred ties that united them, sufficient!}" strong 
to maintain themselves above the law, bold enough 
to undertake all things, and fortunate enough to suc- 
ceed, nearl}" alwa3’S, in their undertakings ; having 
run the greatest dangers, but keeping silence if de- 
feated ; inaccessible to fear ; trembling neither before 
princes, nor executioners, not even before innocence ; 
accepting each other for such as they were, without 
social prejudices, — criminals no doubt, but certainly 
remarkable through certain of the qualities that make 
great men, and recruiting their number onl}" among 
men of mark. That nothing might be lacking to the 
sombre and mysterious poesy of their history, these 
Thirteen men have remained to this day unknown ; 


VI 


Preface. 


though all have realized the most chimerical ideas 
that the fantastic power falsely attributed to the Man- 
freds, the Fausts, and the Melmoths can suggest to 
the imagination. To-day, they are broken up, or, at 
least, dispersed ; they have peaceably put their necks 
once more under the yoke of civil law, just as Morgan, 
that Achilles among pirates, transformed himself from 
a buccaneering scourge to a quiet colonist, and spent, 
without remorse, around his domestic hearth the mil- 
lions gathered in blood by the lurid light of flames and 
slaughter. 

Since the death of Napoleon, circumstances, about 
which the author must keep silence, have still farther 
dissolved the original bond of this secret society, always 
extraordinar}’, sometimes sinister, as though it lived in 
the blackest pages of Mrs. Radcliffe. A somewhat 
strange permission to relate in his own way a few of 
the adventures of these men (while respecting cer- 
tain susceptibilities) has onlj" recently’ been given to 
him b}^ one of those anonymous heroes to whom all 
societ}’ was once occultly subjected. In this permis- 
sion the writer fancied he detected a vague desire for 
personal celebrity. 

This man, apparently still young, with fair hair and 
blue eyes, whose sweet, clear voice seemed to denote a 
feminine soul, was pale of face and mysterious in man- 
ner ; he conversed affably, declared himself not more 


Preface. vii 

than forty years of age, and apparent!}' belonged to 
the very highest social classes. The name which he 
assumed must have been fictitious ; his person w'as 
unknown in society. Who was he? That, no one 
has ever known. 

Perhaps in confiding to the author the extraordinary 
matters which he related to him, this mysterious per- 
son may have wished to see them in a manner repro- 
duced, and thus enjoy the emotions they were certain 
to bring to ,the heart of the masses, — a feeling analo- 
gous to that of Macpherson when the name of his 
creation Ossian was transcribed into all languages. 
That was certainl}', for the Scotch lawyer, one of the 
keenest, or at any rate the rarest^ sensations a man 
could give himself. Is it not the incognito of genius? 
To write the “Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem’’ is 
to take a share in the human glory of a single epoch ; 
but to endow his native land with another Homer, was 
not that usurping the work of God? 

The author knows too well the laws of narration to 
be ignorant of the pledges this short preface is con- 
tracting for him ; but he also knows enough of the 
history of the Thirteen to be certain that his present 
tale w'ill never be thought below the interest inspired 
by this programme. Dramas steeped in blood, come- 
dies filled with terror, romantic tales through which 
rolled heads mysteriously decapitated, have been con- 


Preface. 


viii 

fided to him. If readers were not surfeited with hor- 
rors served up to them of late in cold blood, he might 
reveal the calm atrocities, the surpassing tragedies con- 
cealed under family life. But he chooses in preference 
gentler events, — those where scenes of purity’ succeed 
the tempests of passion ; where woman is radiant with 
virtue and beauty. To the honor of the Thirteen be 
it said that there are such scenes in their histoiy, which 
may have the honor of being some day published as a 
foil to tales of filibusters, — that race apart from others, 
so curiously energetic, and so interesting in spite of 
its crimes. 

An author ought to be above converting his tale, 
when the tale is true, into a species of surprise-game,' 
and of taking his readers, as certain novelists do, through 
many volumes and from cellar to cellar, to show them 
the dry bones of a dead bod}^ and tell them, bj" way of 
conclusion, that that is what has frightened them be- 
hind doors, hidden in the arras, or in cellars where the 
dead man was buried and forgotten. In spite of his 
aversion for prefaces, the author feels bound to place 
the following statement at the head of this narrative. 
Ferragus is a first episode which clings by invisible 
links to the “ Histor}^ of the Thirteen,” whose power, 
naturally acquired, can alone explain certain acts and 
agencies which would otherwise seem supernatural. 
Although it is permissible in tellers of tales to have 


Preface. 


IX 


a sort of literary coquetiy in becoming historians, 
they ought to renounce the benefit that may accrue 
from an odd or fantastic title — on which certain slight 
successes have been w’on in the present day. 'Conse- 
quentl}’, the author will now explain, succinct!}', the 
reasons that oblige him to select a title to his book 
which seems at first sight unnatural. 

Ferragus is, according to ancient custom, a name 
taken by the chief or Grand Master of the Devorants. 
On the day of their election these chiefs continue 
whichever of the dynasties of their Order they are most 
in S3'mpathy with, precisely as the Popes do, on their 
accession, in connection with pontifical dynasties. Thus 
the Devorants have “ Trempe-la-Soupe IX.,” “ P'erra- 
gus XXII.,” “Tutanus XIII.,” “ Masche-Fer IV.,” 
just as the Church has Clement XIV., Gregory VII., 
Julius II., Alexander VI., etc. 

Now, then, who are the Devorants? “ Devorant” is 
the name of one of those tribes of “ Companions” that 
issued in ancient times from the great mystical associ- 
ation formed among the workers for Christianity to 
rebuild the temple at Jerusalem. Companionism (to 
coin a word) still exists in France among the people. 
Its traditions, powerful over minds that are not 
enlightened, and over men not educated enough to 
cast aside an oath, might serve the ends of formidable 
enterprises if some rough-hewn genius were to seize 


X 


Preface. 


hold of these diverse associations. All the instruments 
of this Companionisin are well-nigh blind. From town 
to town there has existed from time immemorial, for 
the use of Companions, an “ Obade,” — a sort of halt- 
ing-place, kept b}^ a “ Mother,” an old woman, half- 
gj'psy, with nothing to lose, knowing everything that 
happens in her neighborhood, and devoted, either from 
fear or habit, to the tribe, whose straggling members 
she feeds and lodges. This people, ever moving and 
changing, though controlled by immutable customs, has 
its e3’es everywhere, executes, without judging it, a 
Will, — for the oldest Companion still belongs to an 
era when men had faith. Moreover, the whole bod}' 
profess doctrines that are sufficiently’ true and suffi- 
ciently’ my’sterious to electrify into a sort of tribal loy’- 
alty all adepts whenever they obtain even a slight de- 
velopment. The attachment of the Companions to 
their laws is so passionate that the diverse tribes will 
fight sanguinary battles with each other in defence of 
some question of principle. 

Happily for our present public safety, when a Devo- 
rant is ambitious, he builds houses, lays by’ his money, 
and leaves the Order. There is many’ a curious thing 
to tell about the “ Compagnons du Devoir ” [Compan- 
ions of the Duty’], the rivals of the Devorants, and 
about the different sects of working-men, their usages, 
their fraternity, and the bond existing between them 


Preface. 


XI 


and the free-masons. But such details would be out 
of place here. The author must, however, add that 
under the old monarchy it was not an unknown thing 
to find a “ Trempe-la-Soupe ” enslaved to the king 
sentenced for a hundred and one years to the galleys, 
but ruling his tribe from there, religiousl}^ consulted by 
it, and, when he escaped from his galle}^, certain of help, 
succor, and respect, wherever he might be. To see its 
grandmaster at the galleys is, to the faithful tribe, only 
one of those misfortunes for which Providence is re- 
sponsible, and which does not release the Devorants 
from obeying a power created by them to be above 
them. It is but the passing exile of their legitimate 
king, always a king for them. Thus we see the roman- 
tic prestige attaching to the name of Ferragus and to 
that of the Devorants completely dissipated. 

As for the Thirteen, they were all men of the stamp 
of Trelawney, Lord Byron’s friend, who was, they say, 
the original of his “ Corsair.” They were all fatalists, 
men of nerve and poesy, weary of leading flat and 
empty lives, driven toward Asiatic enjo3'ments by 
forces all the more excessive because, long dormant, 
the}" awoke furious. One of them, after re-reading 
“ Venice Preserved,” and admiring the sublime union 
of Pierre and Jaffler, began to reflect on the virtues 
shown by men who are outlawed by society, on the 
honesty of galley-slaves, the faithfulness of thieves 


Xll 


Preface. 


among each other, the privileges of exorbitant power 
which such men know how to win concentrating all 
ideas into a single will. He saw that Man is greater 
than men. He concluded that society ought to belong 
wholly to those distinguished beings who, to natural 
intelligence, acquired wisdom, and fortune, add a 
fanaticism hot enough to fuse into one casting these 
different forces. That done, their occult power, vast in 
action and in intensity’, against which the social order 
would be helpless, would cast down all obstacles, blast 
all other wills, and give to each the devilish power of 
all. This world apart within the world, hostile to the 
world, admitting none of the world’s ideas, not recog- 
nizing any law, not submitting to any conscience but 
that of necessit3% obedient to a devotion onl}’, acting 
with every faculty’ for a single associate when one of 
their number asked for the assistance of all, — this life 
of filibusters in lemon kid gloves and cabriolets ; this 
intimate union of superior beings, cold and sarcastic, 
smiling and cursing in the midst of a false and puerile 
society ; this certainty of forcing all things to serve an 
end, of plotting a vengeance that could not fail of liv- 
ing in thirteen hearts ; this happiness of nurturing a 
secret hatred in the face of men, and of being always 
in arms against them ; this ability to withdraw to the 
sanctuary of self with one idea more than even the 
most remarkable of men could have, — this religion 


Preface. 


xiii 

of pleasure and egotism cast so strong a spell over 
Thirteen men that they revived the society of Jesuits 
to the profit of the devil. 

It was horrible and stupendous ; but the compact 
was made, and it lasted precisely because it appeared 
to be so impossible. 

There was, therefore, in Paris a brotherhood of 
Thirteen, who belonged to each other absolutel}’, 
but ignored themselves as absolutely before the world. 
At night they met, like conspirators, hiding no thought, 
disposing each and all of a common fortune, like that 
of the Old Man of the Mountain ; having their feet in 
all salons, their hands in all money-boxes, their elbows 
in the streets, their heads on many pillows, and making 
all things serve their purpose or their fancy without 
scruple. No chief commanded them ; no one member 
could arrogate to himself that power. The most eager 
passion, the most exacting circumstance, alone had the 
right to pass first. The}^ were Thirteen unknown kings, 
— but true kings, more than ordinaiT kings and judges 
and executioners, — men who, having made themselves 
wings to roam through societ}^ from deptli to height, 
disdained to be anything in the social sphere because 
they could be all. If the present writer ever learns 
the reasons of their abdication of this power, he will 
take occasion to tell them.^ 

1 See Theophile Gautier’s account of the society of the “ Cheval 
Rouge.” Memoir of Balzac. Roberts Brothers, Boston 


XIV 


Preface. 


Now, with this brief explanation, he may be allowed 
to begin the tale of certain episodes in the history' of 
the Thirteen, which have more particular!}’ attracted 
him by the Parisian flavor of their details and the 
whimsicality of their contrasts. 


CONTENTS, 


FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS. 

PAGE 

I. Madame Jules 1 

II. Ferragus 34 

III. The Wife Accused. . . ^ 66 

IV. Where go to Die? 105 

V. Conclusion 155 

THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN. 

I. The Two Gowns, Legal and Feminine . 185 

II. The Man in Solitary Confinement and 

IN THE Solitude of his Soul .... 201 

III. The Pr^au of the Conciergerie, with an 

Essay Philosophic, Linguistic, and Lit- 
erary, ON Thieves’ Latin and Thieves 222 

IV. His Majesty the Dab 239 

V. The Condemned Cell 264 

VI. Mademoiselle Collin appears upon the 

Scene 289 

VII. Madame Camusot pays Three Visits . . 306 

VIII. The Sufferings of an Attorney-General 329 


x\’i Contents, 

IX. Crime and Justice Tete A Tete . . . 

X. In which Jacques Collin prepares for 

HIS D^but as a Comedian 

XI. Messieurs les Anglais, fire first I . . 

XII. Jacques Collin abdicates the Royalty 
OF Dab 


PAGE 

343 

359 

373 

386 


FERRAGUS, 

CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS. 


TO HECTOR BERLIOZ. 


I. 

MADAME JULES. 

Certain streets in Paris are as degraded as a man 
covered with infamy ; also, there are noble streets, 
streets simply respectable, young streets on the mor- 
ality of which the public has not yet formed an opinion ; 
also cut-throat streets, streets older than the age of 
the oldest dowagers, estimable streets, streets always 
clean, streets always dirt}", working, laboring, and 
mercantile streets. In short, the streets of Paris have 
every human quality, and impress us, by what we must 
call their physiognomy, with certain ideas against which 
we are defenceless. There are, for instance, streets of 
a bad neighborhood in which you could not be induced 
to live, and streets where you would willingly take up 
your abode. Some streets, like the rue Montmartre, 

1 


9 


Ferragus. 


have' a charming head, and end in a fish’s tail. The 
me de la Paix is a wide street, a fine street, j’et it 
wakens none of those gracefall}' noble thoughts which 
come to an impressible mind in the middle of the rue 
Ro^^ale, and it certainh' lacks the majesty which reigns 
in the Place Vendome. 

If you walk the streets of the lie Saint-Louis, do not 
seek the reason of the nervous sadness that la^’s hold 
upon 3’ou save in the solitude of the spot, the gloom}’ 
look of the houses, and the great deserted mansions. 
This island, the ghost of fermiers-generaux, is the 
Venice of Paris. The Place de la Bourse is voluble, 
bus}’, degraded ; it is never fine except by moonlight 
at two in the morning. By day it is Paris epitomized ; 
by night it is a dream of Greece. The rue Traversiere- 
Saint-Honore — is not that a villano'us street? Look 
at the wretched little houses with two windows on a 
floor, where vice, and crime, and misery abound. The 
narrow streets exposed to the north, where the sun 
never comes more than three or four times a year, are 
the cut-throat streets which murder with impunity ; the 
authorities of the present day do not meddle with 
them ; but in former times the Parliament might per- 
haps have summoned the lieutenant of police and 
reprimanded him for the state of things ; and it would, 
at least, have issued some decree against such streets, 
as it once did against the wigs of the Chapter of Beau- 


Ferragus. 


vais. And 3’et Monsieur Benoiston de Chateau neuf 
has proved that the mortality of these streets is double 
that of others ! To sum up such theories b}’ a single 
example : is not the rue Fromentin both murderous 
and profligate ! 

These observations, incomprehensible out of Paris, 
will doubtless be understood by musing men of thought 
and poesy and pleasure, who know, while rambling about 
Paris, how to harvest the mass of floating interests 
which ma}" be gathered at all hours within her walls ; 
to them Paris is the most delightful and varied of 
monsters : here, a pretty- woman ; farther on, a hag- 
gard pauper ; here, new as the coinage of a new reign ; 
there, in this corner, elegant as a fashionable woman. 
A monster, moreover, complete ! Its garrets, as it 
were, a head full of knowledge and genius ; its first 
stories stomachs repleted ; its shops, actual feet, where 
the bus}" ambulating crowds are moving. Ah ! what 
an ever-active life the monster leads ! Hardly has the 
last vibration of the last carriage coming from a ball 
ceased at its heart before its arms are moving at the 
barriers and it shakes itself slowly into motion. Doors 
open ; turning on their hinges like the membrane of 
some huge lobster, invisibly manipulated by thirty 
thousand men or women, of whom each individual 
occupies a space of six square feet, but has a kitchen, 
a workshop, a bed, children, a garden, little light to 


4 


Ferragus. 


see by, but must see all. Imperceptibly, the articula- 
tions begin to crack ; motion communicates itself ; the 
street speaks. By mid-day, all is alive ; the chimneys 
smoke, the monster eats ; then he roars, and his thou- 
sand paws begin to ramp. Splendid spectacle ! But, 
O Paris I he who has not admired your gloomy pas- 
sages, your gleams and flashes of light, your deep and 
silent cul-de-sacs^ who has not listened to 3'our murmur- 
ings between midnight and two in the morning, knows 
nothing as yet of your true poes}^, nor of your broad 
and fantastic contrasts. 

There are a few amateurs who never go their way 
heedlessl3' ; who savor their Paris, so to speak ; who 
know its phv’siognom}' so well that the^^ see eveiy wart, 
and pimple, and redness. To others, Paris is alw^ays 
that monstrous marvel, that amazing assemblage of 
activities, of schemes, of thoughts ; the cit}’ of a hun- 
dred thousand tales, the head of the universe. But to 
those few, Paris is sad or ga}’, ugl3" or beautiful, living 
or dead ; to them Paris is a creature ; eveiT man, eveiy 
fraction of a house is a lobe of the cellular tissue of 
that great courtesan whose head and heart and fantas- 
tic customs the3" know so well. These men are lovers 
of Paris ; they lift their noses at such or such a corner 
of a street, certain that the3^ can see the face of a clock ; 
they tell a friend whose tobacco-pouch is empty, “Go 
down that passage and turn to the left ; there ’s a 


Ferragus. 


5 


tobacconist next door to a confectioner, where there 
a pretty girl.” Rambling about Paris is, to these 
poets, a costly luxiuy. How can they help spending 
precious minutes before the dramas, disasters, faces, 
and picturesque events which meet us everywhere amid 
this heaving queen of cities, clothed in posters, — who 
has, nevertheless, not a single clean corner, so compljdng 
is she to the vices of the French nation ! Who has not 
chanced to leave his home early in the morning, intend- 
ing to go to some extremity of Paris, and found himself 
unable to get away from the centre of it b}^ the dinner- 
hour? Such a man will know how to excuse this vaga- 
bondizing start upon our tale ; which, however, we here 
sum up in an observation both useful and novel, as far 
as any observation can be novel in Paris, where there 
is nothing new, — not even the statue erected yesterday, 
on which some young gamin has already" scribbled his 
name. 

Well, then ! there are streets, or ends of streets, 
there are houses, unknown for the most part to persons 
of social distinction, to which a woman of that class 
cannot go without causing cruel and ver}’ wounding 
things to be thought of her. Whether the woman be 
rich and has a carriage, whether she is on foot, or is 
disguised, if she enters one of these Parisian defiles at 
any hour of the day, she compromises her reputation 
as a virtuous woman. If, by chance, she is there at 


6 


Ferragus. 


nine in the evening the conjectures that an observer 
permits himself to make upon her ma}’ prove fearful in 
their consequences. But if the woman is 3’oung and 
pretty', if she enters a house in one of those streets, if 
the house has a long, dark, damp, and evil-smelling 
passage- wa\’, at the end of which flickers the pallid 
gleam of an oil lamp, and if beneath that gleam appears 
the horrid face of a withered old woman wdth fleshless 
Angers, ah, then ! and we sa}" it in the interests of 
3’Oung and pretty* women, that w’oman is lost. She is 
at the merc3' of the first man of her acquaintance who 
sees her in that Parisian slough. There is more than 
one street in Paris where such a meeting ma3’ lead to 
a frightful drama, a blood3’ drama of death and love, 
a drama of the modern school. 

Unhappily, this scene, like modern drama itself, will 
be comprehended b3" only a small number of persons ; 
and it is a pit3^ to tell the tale to a public which can- 
not enter into its local merit. But who can flatter 
himself that he will ever be understood? We all die 
unknown — ’t is the sa3’ing of women and of authors. 

At half-past eight o’clock one evening, in the rue 
Pagevin, in the days when that street had no w’all 
which did not echo some infamous word, and was, in 
the direction of the rue S0I3’, the narrowest and most 
impassable street in Paris (not excepting the least 
frequented corner of the most deserted street), — at the 


Ferragus. 


7 


beginning of the month of February about thirteen 3’ears 
ago, a 3'oung man, by one of those chances which come 
but once in life, turned tlie corner of the rue Pagevin 
to enter the rue des Vieux-Augustins, close to the rue 
Sol}’. There, this young man, who lived himself in 
the rue de Bourbon, saw in a woman near whom he 
had been unconsciously walking, a vague resemblance 
to the prettiest woman in Paris ; a chaste and delight- 
ful person, with whom he was secretly and passionately 
in love,’ — a love without hope; she was married. In 
a moment his heart leaped,' an intolerable heat surged 
from his centre and flowed through all his veins ; his 
back turned cold, the skin of his head crept. He 
loved, he was young, he knew Paris ; and his knowl- 
edge did not permit him to be ignorant of all there 
was of possible infamy in an elegant, rich, young, and 
beautiful woman walking there, alone, with a furtively 
criminal step. She in that mud ! at that hour ! 

The love that this young man felt for that woman 
may seem romantic, and all the more so because he - 
was an officer in the Royal Guard. If he had been 
in the infantry, the affair might have seemed more 
likely; but, as an officer of rank in the cavalry, he 
belonged to that French arm which demands rapidity 
in its conquests and derives as much vanity from its 
amorous exploits as from its dashing uniform. But 
the passion of this officer was a true love, and many 


8 


Ferragus. 


young hearts will think it noble. He loved this woman 
because she was virtuous ; he loved her virtue, her 
modest grace, her imposing saintliness, as the dearest 
treasures of his hidden passion. This woman was 
indeed worthy to inspire one of those platonic loves 
which are found, like flowers amid blood}’ ruins, in the 
history of the middle-ages ; worthy to be the hidden 
principle of all the actions of a 3’oung man’s life ; a love 
as high, as pure as the skies when blue ; a love without 
hope and to which men bind themselves because it can 
• never deceive ; a love that is prodigal of unchecked 
enjoyment, especially at an age when the heart is 
ardent, the imagination keen, and the e3’es of a man 
see vcr}' clearly. 

Strange, weird, inconceivable effects ma}’ be met 
with at night in Paris. Onl}’ those who have amused 
themselves by watching those effects have ain’ idea 
how fantastic a woman ma}’ appear there at dusk.- At 
times the creature whom 3’ou are following, b}’ accident 
or design, seems to 3’ou light and slender ; the stock- 
ings, if they are white, make you fancy that the legs 
must be slim and elegant ; the figure though wrapped 
in a shawl, or concealed by a pelisse, defines itself 
gracefully and seductivel}’ among the shadows ; anon, 
^he uncertain gleam thrown from a shop-wdndow or a 
street lamp bestows a fleeting lustre, nearly always 
deceptive, on the unknown woman, and fires the imag- 


Ferragus. 


9 


illation, carr^’ing it far be3^ond the truth. The senses 
then bestir themselves ; everything takes color and 
animation ; the woman appears in an altogether novel 
aspect; her person becomes beautiful. Behold! she is 
not a woman, she is a demon, a siren, who is drawing 
you b}" magnetic attraction to some respectable house, 
where the worth}" bourgeoises frightened by your 
threatening step and the clack of your boots, shuts 
the door in your face without looking at you. 

. A vacillating gleam, thrown from the shop-window 
of a shoemaker, suddenly illuminated from the waist 
down the figure of the woman who was before the 
young man. Ah ! surely, she alone had that swaying 
figure ; she alone knew the secret of that chaste gait 
which innocently set into relief the many beauties of 
that attractive form. Yes, that was the shawl, and 
that the velvet bonnet which she wore in the mornings. 
On her gray silk stockings not a spot, on her shoes 
not a splash. The shawl held tightly round the bust 
disclosed, vaguely, its charming lines ; and the young 
man, who had often seen those shoulders at a ball, 
knew well the treasures that the shawl concealed. By 
the way a Parisian woman wraps a shawl around her, 
and the way she lifts her feet in the street, a man of 
intelligence in such studies can divine the secret of 
her mysterious errand. There is something, I know 
not what, of quivering buoyancy in. the person, in the 


10 


Ferragus. 


gait ; the woman seems to w'eigh less ; she steps, or 
rather, she glides like a star, and floats onward led by 
a thought which exhales from the folds and motion of 
her dress. The young man hastened his step, passed 
the woman, and then turned back to look at her. Pst! 
she had disappeared into a passage-wa}’, the grated 
door of which and its bell still rattled and sounded. 
The 3'oung man walked back to the alley and saw the 
woman reach the farther end, where she began to 
mount — not without receiving the obsequious bow of 
an old portress — a winding staircase, the lower steps 
of which were strongly lighted ; she went up buoy- 
antlj', eagerly, as though impatient. 

“ Impatient for what? ” said the young man to him- 
self, drawing back to lean against a wooden railing on 
the other side of the street. He gazed, unhapp3" man, 
at the different storeys of the house, with the keen 
attention of a detective searching for a conspirator. 

It was one of those houses of which there are thou- 
sands in Paris, ignoble, vulgar, narrow, 3’ellowish in 
tone, with . four storeys and three windows on each 
floor. The outer blinds of the flrst floor were closed. 
Where was she going? The young man fancied he 
heard the tinkle of a bell on the second floor. As if 
in answer to it, a light began to move in a room with 
two windows strongly illuminated, which presently lit 
up the third window, evidently that of a first room. 


Ferragiis. 


11 


either the salon or the dining-room of the apartment. 
Instantly the outline of a woman’s bonnet showed, 
vaguelj" on the window, and a door between the two 
rooms must have closed, for the first was dark again, 
while the two other windows resumed their ruddy 
glow. At this moment a voice said, “ Hi, there ! ”• 
and the young man was conscious of a blow on his 
shoulder. 

“Why don’t you pay attention?” said the rough 
voice of a workman, carrying a plank on his shoulder. 
The man passed on. He was the voice of Providence 
saying to the watcher : “ What are 3’ou meddling with? 
Think of your own dut}’ ; and leave these Parisians to 
their own affairs.” 

The young man crossed his arms ; then, as no one 
beheld him, he suffered tears of rage to flow down his 
cheeks unchecked. At last the sight of the shadows 
moving behind the lighted windows gave him such 
pain that he looked elsewhere and noticed a hackne}’- 
coach, standing against a wall in the upper part of 
the rue des Vieux-Augustins, at a place where there 
was neither the door of a house, nor the light of a 
shop-window. 

AVas it she? Was it not she? Life or death to a 
lover! This lover waited. He stood there during a 
centuiy of twent}’ minutes. After that the woman 
came down, and he then recognized her as the one 


12 


Ferragus. 


whom he secretly loved. Nevertheless, he wanted 
still to doubt. She went to the hackney-coach and 
got into it. 

“ The house will alwaj'S be there and I can search it 
later, thought the young man, following the carriage 
at a run, to solve his last doubts ; and soon he did so. 

The coach stopped in the rue de Richelieu before a 
shop for artificial flowers, close to the rue de Menars. 
The lad}’^ got out, entered the shop, sent out the 
money to pay the coachman, and presentl3’ left the 
shop herself, on foot, after buying a bunch of mara- 
bouts. Marabouts for her black hair ! The officer 
beheld her, through the window-panes, placing the 
feathers to her head to see the effect, and he fancied 
he could hear the conversation between herself and 
the shop-woman. 

“ Oh! madame, nothing is more suitable for bru- 
nettes: brunettes have something a little too strongly' 
marked in their lines, and marabouts give them just 
that flow which thej' lack. Madame la Duchesse de 
Langeais sa3’s thej" give a woman something vague, 
Ossianic, and ver}' high-bred.” 

“ Very good ; send them to me at once.” 

Then the lad}’ turned quickly toward the rue de 
Menars, and entered her own house. When the door 
closed on her, the young lover, having lost his hopes, 
and worse, far worse, his dearest beliefs, walked 


Ferragus. 


13 


through the streets like a drunken man, and presentl}' 
found himself in his own room without knowing how 
he came there. He flung himself into an arm-chair, 
put his head in his hands and his feet on the andirons, 
drying his boots until he burned them. It was an awful 
moment, — one of those moments in human life when 
the character is moulded, and the future conduct of the 
best of men depends on the good or evil fortune of his 
first action. Providence or fatality? — choose which 
yon will. 

This 3’ourig man belonged to a good famil}’, whose 
nobilit}" was not very ancient ; but there are so few 
reall}^ old families in these daj’s, that all men of rank 
are ancient without dispute. His grandfather had 
bought the office of counsellor to the Parliament of 
Paris, where he afterwards became president. His 
sons, each provided with a handsome fortune, entered 
the arm}", and through their marriages became attached 
to the court. The ‘Revolution swept the famil}" awa}" ; 
but one old dowager, too obstinate to emigrate, was 
left; she was put in prison, threatened with death, 
but was saved b}" the 9th Thermidor and recovered 
her propert}’. When the proper time came, about 
the year 1804, she recalled her grandson to France. 
Auguste de Maulincour, the only scion of the Carbon- 
non de Maulincour, was brought up by the good dow- 
ager with the triple care of a mother, a woman of rank. 


14 


Ferragus. 


and an obstinate dowager. When the Restoration 
came, the young man, then eighteen j^ears of age, 
entered the Maison-Ronge, followed the princes to 
Ghent, was made an officer in the bod3'-guard, left it 
to serve in the line, but was recalled later to the Royal 
Guard, where, at twent^'-three j^ears of age, he found 
himself major of a cavaliy regiment, — a splendid posi- 
tion, due to his grandmother, who had played her cards 
well to obtain it, in spite of his youth. This double 
biograph}’ is a compendium of the general and special 
histor}’, barring variations, of all the noble families 
who emigrated having debts and propert}’, dowagers 
and tact. 

Madame la Baronne de Maulincour had a friend in 
the old Vidame de Pamiers, formerlv a commander of 
the Knights of Malta. This was one of those undying 
friendships founded on sexagenar}’ ties which nothing 
can weaken, because at the bottom of such intimacies 
there are certain secrets of the human heart, delightful 
to guess at w’hen we have the time, insipid to explain 
in twentv words, and which might make the text of a 
work in four volumes as amusing as the Do3en de 
Killerine, — a work about which 3’oung men talk and 
judge without having read it. 

Auguste de Maulincour belonged therefore to the 
faubourg Saint-Germain through his grandmother and 
the vidame, and it sufficed him to date back two cen- 


Ferragus. 


15 


turies to take the tone and opinions of those who 
assume to go back to Clovis. This young man, pale, 
slender, and delicate in appearance, a man of honor 
and true courage, who would fight a duel for a yes or 
a no, had never yet fought upon a battle-field, though 
he wore in his button-hole the cross of the Legion of 
honor. He was, as you perceive, one of the blunders 
of the Restoration, perhaps the most excusable ' of 
them. The youth of those da^^s was the youth of no 
epoch. It came between the memories of the Empire 
and those of the Emigration, between the old traditions 
of the court and the conscientious education of the 
bourgeoisie ; between religion and fancy-balls ; be- 
tween two political faiths, between Louis XVIII., who 
saw onl}^ the present, and Charles X. who looked too 
far into the future ; it was moreover bound to accept 
the will of the king, though the king was deceiving and 
tricking it. This unfortunate 3’outh, unstable in all 
things, blind and yet clear-sighted, was counted as 
nothing b}" old men jealously" keeping the reins of the 
State in their feeble hands, while the monarchy could 
have been saved b^’ their retirement and the accession 
of this Young France, which the old doctrinaires, the 
emigres of the Restoration, still speak of slightingly. 
Auguste de Maulincour was a victim to the ideas which 
weighed in those days upon French youth, and we must 
here explain wh}'. 


16 


Ferragus. 


The Vidame de Pamiers was still, at sixt3’-seven 
}'Gars of age, a ver}" brilliant man, having seen much 
and lived much ; a good talker, a man of honor and a 
gallant man, but who held as to women the most de- 
testable opinions ; he loved them, and he despised 
them. honor! feelings ! Ta-ra-ra, rubbish 

and shams ! When he was with them, he believed in 
them, the ci-devant “ monstre ; ” he never contradicted 
them, and he made them shine. But among his male 
friends, when the topic of the sex came up, he laid 
down the principle, that to deceive women, and to carr\^ 
on several intrigues at once, should be the occupation 
of those 5'oung men who were so misguided as to wish 
to meddle in the affairs of the State. It is sad to have 
to sketch so hacknej^ed a portrait, for has it not figured 
ever\’ where and become, literall}^, as threadbare as that 
of a grenadier of the Empire? But the vidame had an" 
influence on Monsieur de Maulincour’s destin}^ which 
obliges us to preserve his portrait ; he lectured the 
young man after his fashion, and did his best to con- 
vert him to the doctrines of the great age of gallantly. 

The dowager, a tender-hearted, pious woman, sitting 
between God and her vidame, a model of grace and 
sweetness, but gifted with that well-bred persistency 
which triumphs in the long run, had longed to preserve 
for her grandson the beautiful illusions of life, and had 
therefore brought him up in the highest principles ; she 


Ferragus. 


17 


instilled into him her own delicac3' of feeling and made 
him, to outward appearance, a timid man, if not a fool. 
The sensibilities of the young fellow, preserved pure, 
were not worn contact without ; he remained so 
chaste, so scrupulous, that he was keenl}^ offended by 
actions and maxims to which the world attached no 
consequence. Ashamed of this susceptibility, he forced 
himself to conceal it under a false hardihood ; but he 
suffered in secret, all the while scoffing with others at 
the things he reverenced. 

It came to pass that he was deceived ; because, in 
accordance with a not uncommon whim of destin}", he, 
a man of gentle melanchol}’, and spiritual in love, 
encountered in the object of his first passion a woman 
who held in horror all German sentimentalism. The 
young man, in consequence, distrusted himself, became 
dreamy, absorbed in his griefs, complaining of not 
being understood. Then, as we desire all the more 
violentl}' the things we find it difficult to obtain, he 
continued to adore women wdth that ingenuous tender- 
ness and feline delicacy- the secret of which belongs to 
women themselves, who maj", perhaps, prefer to keep 
the monopoly of it. In point of fact, though women 
of the world complain of the way men love them, the}' 
have little liking themselves for those w’hose soul is 
half feminine. Their own superiority consists in mak- 
ing men believe the}' are their inferiors in love ; there- 

2 


18 


Ferragus. 


fore they will readily leave a lover if he is inexperienced 
enough to rob them of those fears with which they seek 
to deck themselves, those delightful tortures of feigned 
^ealous}^, those troubles of hope betrayed, those futile 
expectations, — in short, the whole procession of their 
feminine miseries. They hold Sir Charles Grandison 
in horror. What can be more contrary to their nature 
than a tranquil, perfect love? The}" want emotions; 
happiness without storms is not happiness to them. 
Women souls that are strong enough to bring infini- 
tude into love are angelic exceptions ; they are among 
women what noble geniuses are among men. Their 
great passions are rare as masterpieces. Below the 
level of such love come compromises, conventions, 
passing and contemptible irritations, as in all things 
petty and perishable. 

Amid the hidden disasters of his heart, and while he 
was still seeking the woman who could comprehend him 
(a search which, let us remark in passing, is one of the 
amorous follies of our epoch), Auguste met, in the 
rank of society that was farthest from his own, in 
the secondary sphere of money, where banking holds 
the first place, a perfect being, one of those w^omen 
who have I know not what about them that is saintly 
and sacred, — women who inspire such reverence that 
love has need of the help of long familiarity to declare 
itself. 


Ferragus. 


19 


Auguste then gave himself up wholly to the delights 
of the deepest and most moving of passions, to a love 
that was purely adoring. Innumerable repressed de- 
sires there were, shadows of passion so vague yet so 
profound, so fugitive and yet so actual, that one 
scarcely knows to what we may compare them. They 
are like perfumes, or clouds, or rays of the sun, or 
shadows, or whatever there is in nature that shines for 
a moment and disappears, that springs to life and dies, 
leaving in the heart long echoes of emotion. When 
the soul is young enough to nurture melancholy and 
far-off hope, to find in woman more than a woman, is 
it not the greatest happiness that can befall a man 
when he loves enough to feel more joy in touching a 
gloved hand, or a lock of liair, in listening to a word, 
in casting a single look, than in all the ardor of pos- 
session given by happ}" love? Tlius it is that rejected 
persons, those rebuffed by fate, the ugly and unfortu- 
tunate, lovers unrevealed, women and timid men, alone 
know the treasures contained in the voice of the be- 
loved. Taking their source and their element from the 
soul itself, the vibrations of the air, charged with pas- 
sion, put our hearts so powerfully into communion, cany- 
ing thought between them so lucidly, and being, above 
all, so incapable of falsehood, that a single inflection of 
a voice is often a revelation. What enchantments the 
intonations of a tender voice can bestow upon the heart 


20 


Ferragus. 


of a poet ! What ideas they awaken ! What freshness 
they shed there ! Love is in the voice before the glance 
avows it. Auguste, poet after the manner of lovers 
(there are poets who feel, and poets who express ; the 
first are the happiest), Auguste had^tasjpd alj these 
early joys, so vast, so fecund. SnE-possesajd the^ost 
winning organ that the most artful woman of the world' 
could have desired in order to deceive at her ease ; 
she had that silvery voice which is soft to the ear, and 
ringing only for the heart which it stirs and troubles, 
caresses and subjugates. 

And this woman went b}’ night to the rue Soly 
through the rue Pagevin ! and her furtive apparition 
in an infamous house had just destroyed the grandest 
of passions ! The vidame’s logic triumphed. 

“ If she is betraying her husband we will avenge 
ourselves,” said Auguste. 

There was still faith in tl^at»^‘if.” The philosophic 
doubt of Descartes is a politeness with 'which we should 
always honor virtue. Ten o’clock sounded. The Baron 
de Maulincour remembered that this woman was goinsr 
to a ball that evening at a house to which he had 
access. He dressed, went there, and searched for her 
through all the salons. The mistress of the house, Ma- 
dame de Nucingen, seeing him thus occupied,. said^ 

“You are looking for Madame Jules ; 'but sheji 
not yet come.’^ 


Ferragus. 


21 


“ Good evening, dear,” said a voice. 

Auguste and Madame de Nucingen turned round. 
Madame Jules had arrived, dressed in white, looking 
simple and noble, wearing in her hair the marabouts 
the young baron had seen her choose in the flower- 
shop. That voice of love now pierced his heart. Had 
he won the slightest right to be jealous of her he 
would have petrified her then and there bj" saying the 
words, “Rue Soly ! ” But if he, an alien to her life, 
had said those w'ords in her ear a thousand times, 
Madame Jules would have asked him in astonishment 
what he meant. He looked at her stupidly. 

For those sarcastic persons who scoff at all things it 
may be a great amusement to detect the secret of a 
woman, to know that her chastit}* is a lie, that her 
calm face hides some anxious thought, that under that 
pure brow is a dreadful drama. But there are other 
souls to whom the sight is saddening ; and many of 
those who laugh in public, when withdrawn into them- 
selves and alone with their conscience, curse the world 
while they despise the woman. Such was the case 
with Auguste de Maulincour, as he stood there in 
presence of Madame Jules. Singular situation ! There 
was no other relation between them than that which 
social life establishes between persons w'ho exchange 
a few w'ords seven or eight times in the course of a 
winter, and yet he was calling her to account on behalf 


22 


Ferragus. 


of a happiness unknown to her ; he was judging her, 
without letting her know of his accusation. 

Many young men find themselves thus in despair 
at having broken forever with a woman adored in 
secret, condemned and despised in secret. There are 
many hidden monologues told to the walls of some 
solitary lodging ; storms roused and calmed without 
ever leaving the depths of hearts ; amazing scenes of 
the moral world, for which a painter is wanted. Ma- 
dame Jules sat down, leaving her husband to make 
a turn around the salon. After she was seated she 
seemed uneas}’, and, wdiile talking with her neighbor, 
she kept a furtive on Monsieur Jules Desmarets, 
her husband, a broker chiefly employed by the Baron 
de Nucingen. The following is the history of their 
home life. 

Monsieur Desmarets was, five years before his mar- 
riage, in a broker’s office, with no other means than 
the meagre, salaiy of a clerk. But he was a man to 
whom misfortune had earl}’ taught the truths of life, and 
he followed the strait path with the tenacity of an insect 
making for its nest; he was one of those dogged 3’oung 
fellows who feign death before an obstacle and wear 
out everybody’s patience with their own beetle-like 
perseverance. Thus, young as he was, he had all the 
republican virtue of poor peoples ; he was sobei’, saving 
of his time, an enemy to pleasure. He waited. Nature 


Ferragus. 


23 


had given him the immense advantage of an agree- 
able exterior. His calm, pure brow, the shape of his 
placid, but expressive face, his simple manners, — all 
revealed in him a laborious and resigned existence, 
that lofty personal dignitj' which is imposing to others, 
and the secret nobilit}' of heart which can meet all 
events. His modesty inspired a sort of respect in 
those who knew him. Solitaiy in the midst of Paris, 
lie knew the social world onl3' b}’ glimpses during the 
brief moments which he spent in his patron’s salon on 
holida3’s. 

There were passions in this young man, as in most 
of the men who live in that wa}’, of amazing profundit}’, 
— passions too vast to be drawn into petty incidents. 
His want of means compelled him to lead an ascetic 
life, and he conquered his fancies b}^ hard work. After 
paling all da^’ over figures, he found his recreation in 
striving obstinately to acquire that wide general knowl- 
edge so necessary in these days to eveiy man who 
wants to make his mark, whether in society, or in com- 
merce, at the bar, or in politics or literature. The 
onl}" peril these fine souls have to fear comes from 
their own uprightness. They see some poor girl ; they 
love her ; thej^ many her, and wear out their lives in a 
struggle between poverty and love. The noblest am- 
bition is quenched perforce by the household account- 
book. Jules Desmarets went headlong into this peril. 


24 


Ferragus. 


He met one evening at his patron’s house a girl of 
the rarest beauty. Unfortunate men who are deprived 
of affection, and who consume the finest hours of youth 
in work and study, alone know the rapid ravages that 
passion makes in their lonely, misconceived hearts.- 
The}^ are so certain of loving trul}’, all their forces 
are concentrated so quickly" on the object of their 
love, that they receive, while beside her, the most 
delightful sensations, when, as often happens, the\" 
inspire none at all. Nothing is more flattering to a 
woman’s egotism than to divine this passion, appar- 
ently immovable, and these emotions so deep that 
they have needed a great length of time to reach the 
human surface. These poor men, anchorites in the 
midst of Paris, have all the enjoyments of anchorites ; 
and ma}" sometimes succumb to temptations. But, 
more often deceived, betrayed, and misunderstood, 
they are rarely able to gather the sweet fruits of a 
love which, to them, is like a flower dropped from 
heaven. 

One smile from his wife, a single inflection of her 
voice sufficed to make Jules Desmarets conceive a 
passion which was boundless. HappiU, the concen- 
trated fire of that secret passion revealed itself art- 
lessl}" to the woman who inspired it. These two 
beings then loved each other religiously. To express 
all in a word, they clasped hands without shame before 


Ferragus. 


25 


the eyes of the world and went their way like two 
children, brother and sister, passing serenely through 
a crowd where all made way for them and admired 
them. 

The 3’oung girl was in one of those unfortunate posi- 
tions which human selfishness entails upon children. 
She had no civil status ; her name of “Clemence” and 
her age w^ere recorded only by a notar}^ public. As for 
her fortune, that was small indeed. Jules Desmarets 
was a happy man on hearing these particulars. If 
Clcmence had belonged to an opulent familj', he might 
have despaired of obtaining her ; but she was only the 
poor child of love, the fruit of some terrible adulterous 
passion ; and the}’’ were married. Then began for 
Jules Desmarets a series of fortunate events. Every 
one envied his happiness ; and henceforth talked only 
of his luck, without recalling either his virtues or his 
courage. 

Some days after their marriage, the mother of 
Clemence, who passed in society for her godmother, 
told Jules Desmarets to bu}^ the office and good-will 
of a broker, promising to provide him with the neces- 
saiy capital. In those days, such offices could still be 
bought at a moderate price. That evening, in the 
salon as it happened of his patron, a wealthy capitalist 
proposed, on the recommendation of the mother, a very 
advantageous transaction for Jules Desmarets, and the 


26 


Ferragus. 


next da}" tlie happy clerk was able to bn}" out liis 
patron. In four years Desmarets became one of the 
most prosperous men in his business ; new clients in- 
creased the number his predecessor had left to him ; 
he inspired confidence in all ; and it was impossible 
for him not to feel, by the way business came to him, 
that some hidden influence, due to his mother-in-law, 
or to Providence, was secretly protecting him. 

At the end of the third year Clemence lost her god- 
mother. By that time Monsieur Jules (so called to dis- 
tinguish him from an elder brother, whom he had set up 
as a notary in Paris) possessed an income from invested 
property of two hundred thousand francs. There was 
not in all Paris another instance of the domestic hap- 
piness enjoyed by this couple. For five years their 
exceptional love had been troubled by only one event, 
— a calumny for which Monsieur Jules exacted ven- 
geance. One of his former comrades attributed to 
Madame Jules the fortune of her husband, explaining 
that it came from a high protection dearly paid for. 
The man who uttered the calumny was killed in the 
duel that followed it. 

The profound passion of this couple, which survived 
marriage, obtained a great success in society, though 
some women were annoyed by it. The charming house- 
hold was respected ; everybody feted it. Monsieur and 
Madame Jules were sincerely liked, perhaps because 


Ferragus. 


27 


there is nothing more delightful to see than happy 
people f but they never stayed long at any festivity. 
They slipped away early, as impatient to regain their 
nest as wandering pigeons. This nest was a large and 
beautiful mansion in the rue de Menars, where a true 
feeling for art tempered the luxury which the financial 
world continues, traditionally, to display. Here the 
happy pair received their society magnificently, although 
the obligations of social life suited them but little. 

Nevertheless, Jules submitted to the demands of the 
world, knowing that, sooner or later, a famil}’ has need 
of it ; but he and his wife felt themselves, in its 
midst, like green-house plants in a tempest. With a 
delicacy that was veiy natural, Jules had concealed 
from his wife the calumny and the death of the calum- 
niator. Madame Jules, herself, was inclined, through 
her sensitive and artistic nature, to desire luxur}". In 
spite of the terrible lesson of the duel, some imprudent 
women whispered to each other that Madame Jules 
must sometimes be pressed for mone}’. They often 
found her more elegantly dressed in her own home 
than when she went into societ}’. She loved to adorn 
herself to please her husband, wishing to show him 
tliat to her he was more than any social life. A true 
love, a pure love, above all, a happy love! Jules, 
always a lover, and more in love as time went by, w'as 
liappy in all things beside his wife, even in her caprices ; 


28 


Ferragus. 


ill fact, he would have been uneasy if she had none, 
thinking it a symptom of some illness. 

Auguste de Maulincour had the personal misfortune 
of running against this passion, and falling in love 
with the wife beyond recovery. Nevertheless,, though 
he carried in his heart so intense a love, he was not 
ridiculous ; he complied with all the demands of soci- 
ety', and of military manners and customs. And 3'et 
his face wore constantl}’, even though he might be 
drinking a glass of champagne, that dream3’ look, that 
air of silently despising life, that nebulous expression 
which belongs, though for other reasons, to biases men, 
— men dissatisfied with hollow lives. To love without 
hope, to be disgusted with life, constitute, in these 
da3*s, a social position. The enterprise of winning 
the heart of a sovereign might give, perhaps, more 
hope than a love rashl3’ conceived for a happy woman. 
Therefore Maulincour had sufficient reason to be grave 
and gloom3’. A queen has the vanity of her powder ; 
the height of her elevation protects her. But a pious 
hourgeoise is like a hedgehog, or an oyster, in its rough 
wrappings. 

At this moment the 3'oung officer was beside his 
unconscious mistress, who certainly was unaware that 
she was doubl3' faithless. Madame Jules was seated, in 
a naive attitude, like the least artful woman in exist- 
ence, soft and gentle, full of a mnjestic serenit3’. 


Ferragus. 


29 


What an abyss is human nature ! Before beginning a 
conversation, the baron looked alternately at the wife 
and at the husband. How many were the reflections 
he made ! He recomposed the “ Night Thoughts ” of 
Young in a second. And 3’et the music was sounding 
through the salons, the light was pouring from a thou- 
sand candles. It was a banker’s ball, — one of those 
insolent festivals bj^ means of which the world of solid 
gold endeavored to sneer at the gold-embossed salons 
where the faubourg Saint-Germain met and laughed, not 
foreseeing the day when the bank would invade the 
Luxembourg and take its seat upon the throne. The 
conspirators were now dancing, indifferent to coming 
bankruptcies, whether of Power or of the Bank. The 
gilded salons of the Baron de Nucingen were gay with 
that peculiar animation that the world of Paris, appar- 
entl}’ joyous at any rate, gives to its fetes. There, 
men of talent communicate their wit to fools, and fools 
communicate that air of enjoyment that characterizes 
them. Bj’ means of this exchange all is liveliness. 
But a ball in Paris alwa3’s resembles fireworks to a 
certain extent ; wit, coquetr3% and pleasure sparkle 
and go out like rockets. The next da3' all present have 
forgotten their wit, their coquetr3’, their pleasure. 

“Ah!” thought Auguste, by wa3’ of conclusion, 
“ women are what the vidame says the3' are. Cer- 
tainl3" all those dancing here are less irreproachable 


30 


Ferragus. 


actually than Madame Jules appears to be, and yet 
Madame Jules went to the rue Soly ! ” 

The rue Soly was like an illness to him ; the very 
word shrivelled his heart. 

“ Madame, do 3’ou ever dance? ” he said to her. 

“ This is the third time you have asked me that 
question this winter,” she answered, smiling. 

“ But perhaps you have never answered it.” 

“ That is true.” 

“ I knew veiy well that 3^ou were false, like other 
women.” 

Madame Jules continued to smile. 

“Listen, monsieur,” she said; “if I told you the 
real reason, 3’ou would think it ridiculous. I do not 
think it false to abstain from telling things that the 
world would laugh at.” 

“ All secrets demand, in order to be told, a friend- 
ship of which I am no doubt unworth}’, madame. But 
you cannot have any but noble secrets ; do you think 
me capable of jesting on noble things?” 

“Yes,” she said, “ you, like all the rest, laugh at 
our purest sentiments ; you calumniate them. Besides, 
I have no secrets. I have the right to love my liusband 
in the face of all the world, and I say so, — I am proud 
of it ; and if you laugh at me when I tell you that I 
dance only with him, I shall have a bad opinion of your 
heart.” 


Ferragus. 


1 

ol 


“ Have you never danced since your marriage with 
any one but your husband ? ” 

“Never. His arm is the only one on which I have 
leaned ; 1 have never felt the touch of another man.” 

“ Has 3’our physician never felt your pulse?” 

“Now 3’ou are laughing at me.’’ 

“No, madame, I admire 3011, because I comprehend 
you. But you let a man hear your voice, you let your- 
self be seen, 3^ou — in short, you permit our eyes to 
admire 3’ou — ” 

“ Ah ! ” she said, interrupting him, “ that is one of 
mv griefs. Yes, I wish it were possible for a married 
woman to live secluded with her husband, as a mistress 
lives with her lover, for then — ” 

‘^Then wh3^ were you, two hours ago, on foot, dis- 
guised, in the rue Soly?” 

“ The rue S0I3', where is that?” 

And her pure voice gave no sign of any emotion ; no 
feature of her face quivered ; she did not blush ; she 
remained calm. 

“ What! you did not go up to the second floor of a 
house in the rue des Vieux-Augustins at the corner of 
the rue Soly? You did not have a hackne3’-coach 
waiting near b3^? You did not return in it to the 
flower-shop in the rue Richelieu, where you bought the 
feathers that are now in your hair? ” 

“ I did not leave m3’ house this evening.” 


32 


Ferragus. 


As she uttered that lie she was smiling and imper- 
turbable ; she played with her fan ; but if any one had 
passed a hand down her back they would, perhaps, have 
found it moist. At that instant Auguste remembered 
the instructions of the vidame. 

“ Then it was some one who strangel}’ resembled 
3’ou,” he said, with a credulous air. 

‘^Monsieur,” she replied, “if 3’ou are capable of 
following a woman and detecting her secrets, 3’ou will 
allow me to say that it is a wrong, a veiy wrong thing, 
and I do you the honor to sa3' that I disbelieve 3’ou.” 

The baron turned awa3', placed himself before the 
fireplace and seemed thoughtful. He bent his head ; 
but his e3’es were covertl3" fixed on Madame Jules, 
who, not remembering the reflections in the mirror, 
cast two or three glanees at him that were full of 
terror. Presenth' she made a sign to her husband 
and rising took his arm to walk about the salon. As 
she passed before Monsieur de Maulincour, who at 
that moment was speaking to a friend, he said in a 
loud voice, as if in reply to a remark: “ That woman 
will certainl3' not sleep quietl3’ this night.” Madame 
Jules stopped, gave him an imposing look which ex- 
pressed contempt, and continued her wa3’, unaware 
that another look, if surprised by her husband, might 
endanger not only her happiness but the lives of two 
men. Auguste, frantic with anger, which he tried to 


Ferragits. 


33 


smother in the depths of his soul, presently left the 
house, swearing to penetrate to the heart of the mj’s- 
teiy. Before leaving, he sought Madame Jules, to 
look at her again ; but she had disappeared. 

What a drama cast into that 3’oung head so emi- 
nently romantic, like all who have not known love in 
the wide extent which the}^ give to it. He adored 
Madame Jules under a new aspect; he loved her 
now with tlie fuiy of jealousy and the frenzied 
anguish of hope. Unfaithful' to her husband, the 
woman became common. Auguste could now give 
himself up to the joys of successful love, and his imag- 
ination opened to him a career of pleasures. Yes, he 
had lost the angel, but he had found the most delight- 
ful of demons. He went to bed, building castles in 
the air, excusing Madame Jules b}’- some romantic fic- 
tion in which he did not believe. He resolved to 
devote himself wholl}', from that day forth, to a search 
for the causes, motives, and ke3mote of this mysteiy. 
It was a tale to read, or, better still, a drama to be 
played, in which he had a part. 


34 


Ferragus. 


II. 

FERRAGUS. 

A FINE thing is the task of a spy, when performed 
for one’s own benefit and in the interests of a passion. 
Is it not giving ourselves the pleasures of a thief and 
a rascal while continuing honest men? But there is 
another side to it; we must resign ourselves to boil 
with anger, to roar with impatience, to freeze our feet 
in the mud, to be numbed, and roasted, and torn by 
false hopes. We must go, on the faith of a mere indi- 
cation, to a vague object, miss our end, curse our luck, 
improvise to ourselves elegies, dithyrambics, exclaim 
idiotically before inoffensive pedestrians who observe 
us, knock over old apple-women and their baskets, 
run hither arid thither, stand on guard beneath a win- 
dow, make a thousand suppositions. But, after all, 
it is a chase, a hunt ; a hunt in Paris, a hunt with all 
its chances, minus dogs and guns and the tally-ho ! 
Nothing compares with it but the life of gamblers. 
But it needs a heart big with love and vengeance to 
ambush itself in Paris, like a tiger waiting to spring 
upon its prey, and to enjoy the chances and con- 
tingencies of Paris, by adding one special interest to 


Ferragus. 


35 


the many that abound there. But for this we need a 
man3’-sided soul — for must we not live in a thousand 
passions, a thousand sentiments? 

Auguste de Maulincour flung himself into this ardent 
existence passion atel}’, for he felt all its pleasures and 
all its misery. He went disguised about Paris, watch- 
ing at the corners of the rue Pagevin and the rue 
des Vienx-Augustins. He hurried like a hunter from 
the rue de Menars to the rue Soly, and back from the 
rue Soly to the rue de Menars, without obtaining either 
the vengeance or the knowledge which would punish 
or reward such cares, such efforts, such wiles. But 
he had not yet reached that impatience which wrings 
our very entrails and makes us sweat ; he roamed in 
hope, believing that Madame Jules would onlj' refrain 
for a few da^^s from revisiting the place where she 
knew she had been detected. He devoted the first 
days therefore, to a careful studj" of the secrets of the 
street. A novice at such work, he dared not question 
either the porter or the shoemaker of the house to 
which Madame Jules had gone ; but he managed to 
obtain a post of observation in a house directly op- 
posite to the mysterious apartment. He studied the 
ground, trying to reconcile the conflicting demands of 
prudence, impatience, love, and secrec3^ 

Early in the month of March, while bus}’ with plans 
by which he expected to strike a decisive blow, he 


36 


Ferragus. 


left his post about four in the afternoon, after one of 
those patient watches from which he had learned noth- 
ing. He was on his wa}^ to his own house whither a 
matter relating to his military" service called him, when 
he was overtaken in the rue Coquilliere by one of those 
heavy showers which instantly flood the gutters, while 
each drop of rain rings loudly in the puddles of the 
roadway. A pedestrian under these circumstances is 
forced to stop short and take refuge in a shop or cafe 
if he is rich enough to pay for the forced hospitalit}', 
or, if in poorer circumstances, under a porte-cochere. 

that haven of paupers or shabbil}’ dressed persons. 

♦ 

Why have none of our painters ever attempted to re- 
produce the physiognomies of a swarm of Parisians, 
grouped, under stress of weather, in the damp porte- 
cocMre of a building? Where could they And a richer 
subject? First, there’s the musing philosophical pe- 
destrian, who observes with interest all he sees, — 
whether it be the stripes made by the rain on tlie 
gray background of the atmosphere (a species of chas- 
ing not unlike the capricious threads of spun glass), 
or the whirl of white water which the wind is driving 
like a luminous dust along the roofs, or the fitful dis- 
gorgements of the gutter-pipes, sparkling and foaming ; 
in short, the thousand nothings to be admired and 
studied with delight by loungers, in spite of the por- 
ter’s broom which pretends to be sweeping out the 


Ferragus. 


37 


gateway. Then there ’s the talkative refugee, who 
complains and converses with the porter while he rests 
on his broom like a grenadier on his musket ; or the 
pauper wayfarer, curled against the wall indifferent to 
the condition of his rags, long used, alas, to contact 
with the streets ; or the learned pedestrian who stud- 
ies, spells, and reads the posters on the walls without fin- 
ishing them ; or the smiling pedestrian who makes fun 
of others to whom some street fatality has happened, 
who laughs at the muddy women, and makes grimaces 
at those of either sex who are looking from the win- 
dows ; and the silent being who gazes from fioor to 
floor ; and the working-man, armed with a satchel or a 
paper bundle, who is estimating the rain as a profit or 
loss ; and the good-natured fugitive, who arrives like 
a shot exclaiming, Ah ! what weather, messieurs, what 
weather ! ” and bows to every one ; and, finally, the 
true bourgeois of Paris, with his unfailing umbrella, 
an expert in showers, who foresaw this particular one, 
but would come out in spite of his wife ; this one takes 
a seat in the porter’s chair. According to individual 
character, each member of this fortuitous societ}’ con- 
templates the skies, and departs, skipping to avoid the 
mud, — because he is in a hurr}’, or because he sees 
other citizens walking along in spite of wind and slush, 
or because, the archway being damp and mortalh’ catar- 
rhal, the bed’s edge, as the proverb says, is better than 


38 


Ferragus. 


the sheets. Each one has his motive. No one is left 
but the prudent pedestrian, the man who, before he 
sets forth, makes sure of a scrap of blue sk}' through 
the rifting clouds. 

Monsieur de Maulincour took refuge, as we have 
said, with a whole family’ of fugitives, under the porch 
of an old house, the court-vard of which looked like 
the flue of a chimnej". The sides of its plastered, nit- 
rified, and mouldy walls were so covered with pipes 
and conduits from all the many floors of its four ele- 
vations, that it might have been said to resemble at 
that moment the cascatelles of Saint-Cloud. Watei* 
flowed everywhere ; it boiled, it leaped, it murmured ; 
it was black, white, blue, and green; it shrieked, it 
bubbled under the broom of the portress, a toothless 
old woman used to storms, who seemed to bless them 
as she swept into the street a mass of scraps an in- 
telligent inventory of which would have revealed the 
lives and habits of eveiy dweller in the house, — bits 
of printed cottons, tea-leaves, artificial flower-petals 
faded and worthless, vegetable parings, papers, scraps 
of metal. At every sweep of her broom the old woman 
bared the soul of the gutter, that black fissure on which 
a porter’s mind is ever bent. The poor lover examined 
this scene, like a thousand others which our heaving 
Paris presents daily ; but he examined it mechani- 
cally, as a man absorbed in thought, when, happening 


Ferragus. 


39 


to look up, he found himself all but nose to nose with 
a man who had just entered the gatewa\'. 

In appearance this man was a beggar, but not the 
Parisian beggar, — that creation without a name in 
human language ; no, this man formed another type, 
while presenting on the outside all the ideas suggested 
by the word “ beggar.” He was not marked by those 
original Parisian characteristics which strike us so 
forcibly in the paupers whom Charlet was fond of 
representing, with his rare luck in observation, — coarse 
faces reeking of mud, hoarse voices, reddened and 
bulbous noses, mouths devoid of teeth but menacing ; 
humble yet terrible beings, in whorh a profound intel- 
ligence shining in their eyes seems like a contradic- 
tion. Some of these bold vagabonds have blotched, 
cracked, veiny skins ; their foreheads are covered with 
wrinkles, their liair scanty and dirty, like a wig thrown 
on a dust-heap. All are gay in their degradation, and 
degraded in their jo3's ; all are marked with the stamp 
of debaucheiy, casting their silence as a reproach ; 
their very attitude revealing fearful thoughts. Placed 
between crime and beggary they have no compunctions, 
and circle prudentl}’ around the scaffold without mount- 
ing it, innocent in the midst of crime, and vicious in 
their innocence. The}’ often cause a laugh, but they 
alwaj’s cause reflection. One represents to you civili- 
zation stunted, repressed ; he comprehends everything. 


40 


Ferragus. 


the honor of the galle3’S, patriotism, virtue, the malice 
of a vulgar crime, or the fine astuteness of elegant 
wickedness. Another is resigned, a perfect mimer, 
but stupid. All have slight yearnings after order and 
work, but they are pushed back into their mire by 
society, which makes no inquiiy as to what there ma}- 
be of great men, poets, intrepid souls, and splendid 
organizations among these vagrants, these gj’psies of 
Paris ; a people emineiitl}- good and eminently' evil — 
like all the masses who sufiTer — accustomed to endure 
unspeakable woes, and whom a fatal power holds ever 
down to the level of the mire. They all have a dream, 
a hope, a happiness, — cards, lottery, or wine. 

There was nothing of all this in the personage who 
now leaned carelessly against the wall in front of Mon- 
sieur de Maulincour, like some fantastic idea drawn 
by an artist on the back of a canvas the front of 
which is turned to the wall. This tall, spare man, 
whose leaden visage expressed some deep but chilling 
thought, dried up all pity in the hearts of those who 
looked at him by the scowling look and the sarcastic 
attitude which announced an intention of treating eveiy 
man as an equal. His face was of a dirt}' white, and 
his wrinkled skull, denuded of hair, bore a vague re- 
semblance to a block of granite. A few gra}' locks on 
either side of his head fell straight to the collar of his 
greasy coat, which was buttoned to the chin. He 


Ferragus. 


41 


resembled both Voltaire and Don Quixote ; he was, 
apparentl}’, scoffing but melanchoh", full of disdain 
and philosophy, but half-crazy. He seemed to have 
no shirt. His beard was long. A rusty black cravat, 
much worn and ragged, exposed a protuberant neck 
deeplj^ furrowed, with veins as thick as cords. A 
large brown circle like a bruise was strongly marked 
beneath his eyes. He seemed to be at least sixty 
years old. His hands were white and clean. His 
boots were trodden down at the heels, and 'full of 
holes. A pair of blue trousers, mended in various 
places, were covered with a species of flulf which 
made them offensive to the eye. Whether it was 
that his damp clothes exhaled a fetid odor, or that 
he had in his normal condition the “poor smell” 
which belongs to Parisian tenements, just as offices, 
sacristies, and hospitals have their own peculiar and 
rancid fetidness, of which no words can give the least 
idea, or whether some other reason affected them, 
those in the vicinity of this man immediately moved 
awa}’ and left him alone. He cast upon them and 
also upon the officer a calm, expressionless look, the 
celebrated look of Monsieur de Talleyrand, a dull, 

t 

wan glance, without w'armth, a species of impene- 
trable veil, beneath which a strong soul hides profound 
emotions and close estimation of men and things and' 
events. Not a fold of his face quivered. His mouth 


42 


Ferragus. 


and forehead were impassible ; but his e3’es moved 
and lowered themselves with a noble, almost tragic 
slowness. There was, in fact, a whole drama in the 
motion of those withered ej^elids. 

The aspect of this stoical figure gave rise in Mon- 
sieur de Maulincour to one of those vagabond reveries 
which begin with a common question and end b}' 
comprising a world of thought. The storm was past. 
Monsieur de Maulincour presentl}" saw no more of 
the man than the tail of his coat as it brushed the 
gate-post, but as he turned to leave his own place 
he noticed at his feet a letter which must have fallen 
from the unknown beggar when he took, as the baron 
had seen him take, a handkerchief from his pocket. 
Tlie 3’oung man picked it up, and read, involuntaril}', 
the address : “To Mosieur Ferragusse, Rue des Grands- 
Augustains, corner of rue Sol^".’^ 

The letter bore no postmark, and the address pre- 
vented Monsieur de Maulincour from following the 
beggar and returning it; for there are few passions 
that will not fail in rectitude in the long run. The 
baron had a presentiment of the opportunity afforded 
by this windfall. He determined to keep the letter, 

t 

which would give him the right to enter the mysterious 
house to return it to the strange man, not doubting that 
he lived there. Suspicions, vague as the first faint 
gleams of da3'light, made him fancy relations between 


Ferragus. 


43 


this man and Madame Jules. A jealous lover supposes 
everything ; and it is by supposing everything and 
selecting the most probable of their conjectures that 
judges, spies, lovers, and observers get at the truth they 
are looking for. 

“ Is the letter for him? Is it from Madame Jules? ” 

His restless imagination tossed a thousand such 
questions to him ; but when he read the first words 
of the letter he smiled. Here it is, textually, in all 
the simplicity of its artless phrases and its miserable 
orthography, — a letter to which it would be impossible 
to add anything, or to take anything away, unless it 
were the letter itself. But we have yielded to the 
necessity of punctuating it. In the original there were 
neither commas nor stops of any kind, not even notes 
of exclamation, — a fact which tends to undervalue the 
S3'stem of notes and dashes by which modern authors 
have endeavored to depict the great disasters of all the 
passions : — 

Henry; — Among' the manny sacrifisis I imposed upon 
myself for your sake was that of not giving you anny news 
of me ; but an iresistible voise now compells me to let you 
know the wrong you have done me. I know beforehand 
that your soul hardened in vise will not pitty me. Your 
heart is deaf to feeling. Is it deaf to the cries of nature ? 
But what matter ? I must tell you to what a dredful point 
you are gilty, and the horror of the position to which j-ou 
have brought me. Henry, you knew what I sufered from 


44 


Ferragus. 


my first wrong-doing, and yet you plunged me into the 
same misery, and then abbandoned me to my dispair and 
sufering. Yes, I will say it, the belif I had that you loved 
me and esteemed me gave me corage to bare my fate. But 
now, what have I left? Have you not made me loose all 
that was dear to me, all that held me to life ; parents, 
trends, onor, reputation, — all, I have sacrifised all to you, 
and nothing is left me but shame, oprobrum, and — I say 
this without blushing — poverty. Nothing was wanting to 
my misfortunes but the sertainty of your contempt and 
hatred ; and now I have them 1 find the corage that my 
project requires. My desision is made; the onor of my 
famly commands it. I must put an end to my suferins. 
Make no remarks upon my conduct, Henry ; it is orful, I 
know, but my. condition obbliges me. Without help, without 
suport, without one frend to comfort me, can I live ? No. 
Fate has desided for me. So in two days, Henry, two 
days, Ida will have seased to be worthy of your esteem. 
But hear the oath I make, that my conshence is at peace, 
for I have never seased to be worthy of your regard. Oh, 
Henry! oh, my frend! for I can never change to you, 
promise me to forgive me for what I am going to do. Do 
not forget that you have driven me to it ; it is your work, 
and you must judge it. May heven not punish you for all 
your crimes. I ask your pardon on my knees, for I feel 
nothing is wanting to my misery but the sorow of knowing 
you unhappy. In spite of the poverty I am in I shall refuse 
all help from you. If you had loved me I would have taken 
all from your frendship ; but a benfit given by pitty my soul 
refussis. I would be baser to take it than he who ofered it. 
I have one favor to ask of you. I don’t know how long I 
must stay at Madame Meynardie’s ; be genrous enough not 


Ferragiis. 


45 


to come there. Your last two vissits did me a harm I can- 
not get ofer. T cannot enter into particlers about that con- 
duct of yours. You hate me, — you said so ; that word is 
writen on my heart, and freeses it with fear. Alas ! it is 
now, when I need all my corage, all my strength, that my 
facculties abbandon me. Henry, my frend, before I put a 
barrier forever between us, give me a last pruf of your 
esteem. Write me, answer me, say you respect me still, 
though you have seased to love me. My eyes are worthy 
still to look into yours, but I do not ask an interfew ; I fear 
my weakness and my love. But for pitty’s sake write me a 
line at once ; it will give me the corage I need to meet my 
trubbles. Farewell, orther of all my woes, but the only frend 
my heart has chosen and will never forget. 

Ida. 

This life of a young girl, with its love betrayed, its 
fatal joys, its pangs, its miseries, and its horrible 
resignation, summed up in a few words, this humble 
poem, essentially Parisian, written on dirty paper, 
influenced for a passing moment Monsieur de Maulin- 
cour. He asked himself whether this Ida might not 
be some poor relation of Madame Jules, and that 
strange rendezvous, which he had witnessed by chance, 
the mere necessit}- of a charitable effort. But could 
that old pauper have seduced this Ida? There was 
something .impossible in the very idea. Wandering in 
this labyrinth of reflections, which crossed, recrossed, 
and obliterated one another, the baron reached the rue 
Pagevin, and saw a hackne3^-coach standing at the end 


46 


Ferragus. 


of the rue des Vieux-Augustins where it enters the rue 
Montmartre. All waiting hackney-coaches now had 
an interest for him. 

“ Can she be there?” he thought to himself, and his 
heart beat fast with a hot and feverish throbbing. 

He pushed the little door with the bell, but he low- 
ered his head as he did so, obeying a sense of shame, 
for a voice said to him secretly : — 

“ Why are you putting your foot into this m^'stery?” 

He went up a few steps, and found himself face to 
face with the old portress. 

‘‘ Monsieur Ferragus ? ” he said. 

“ Don’t know him.” 

“ Does n’t Monsieur Ferragus live here? ” 

“ Have n’t such a name in the house.” 

“ But, my good woman — ’’ 

“I’m not 3"Our good woman, monsieur, I’m the 
portress.” 

“But, madame,” persisted the baron, “I have a 
letter for Monsieur Ferragus.” 

“ Ah ! if monsieur has a letter,” she said, changing 
her tone, “ that ’s another matter. Will 3’ou let me 
see it — that letter ? ” 

Auguste showed the folded letter. The old woman 
shook her head with a doubtful air, hesitated, seemed 
to wish to leave the lodge and inform the mysterious 
Ferragus of his unexpected visitor, but finally said : — 


Ferragus. 47 

“Very good; go up, monsieur. I suppose you 
know the wa}"?” 

Without replying to this remark, which he thought 
might be a trap, the 3’oung officer ran lightly up the 
stairwaj", and rang loudly at the door of the second 
floor. His lover’s instinct told him, “ She is there.” 

The beggar of the porch, Ferragus, the “ orther” of 
Ida’s woes, opened the door himself. He appeared in 
a flowered dressing-gown, white flannel trousers, his 
feet in embroidered slippers, and his face washed clean 
of stains. Madame Jules, whose head projected be- 
yond the casing of the door into the next room, turned 
pale and dropped into a chair. 

“What is the matter, madame?” cried the officer, 
springing toward her. 

But Ferragus stretched forth an arm and flung the 
intruder back with so sharp a thrust that Auguste 
fancied he had received a blow from an iron bar full 
on his chest. 

“ Back ! monsieur,” said the man. “ What do 3’ou 
want here ? For five or six days 3’ou have been roam- 
ing about the neighborhood. Are 3^011 a spy?” 

“ Are you Monsieur Ferragus?” said the baron. 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Nevertheless,” continued Auguste, “it is to you 
that I must return this paper which 3^ou dropped in the 
gateway beneath which we both took refuge from the 
rain.” 


48 


Ferragus. 


While speaking and offering the letter to the man, 
Auguste did not refrain from casting an e3’’e around 
the room where Ferragus received him. It was veiT 
well arranged, though simpl}'. A fire burned on the 
hearth ; and near it was a table with food upon it, 
which was served more sumptuoush' than agreed with 
the apparent condition of the man and the poorness of 
his lodging. On a sofa in the next room, which he 
could see through the doorway, lay a heap of gold, and 
he heard a sound which could be no other than that of 
a woman weeping. 

‘‘ The paper belongs to me ; I am much obliged to 
\'ou,” said the mysterious man, turning awa^" as if to 
make the baron understand that he must go. 

Too curious himself to take much note of the deep 
examination of which he was himself the object, 
Auguste did not see the half-magnetic glance with 
which this strange being seemed to pierce him ; had 
he encountered that basilisk eye he might have felt 
the danger that encompassed him. Too passionateh" 

excited to think of himself, Auguste bowed, went down 

# 

the stairs, and returned home, striving to find a mean- 
ing in the connection of these three persons, — Ida, 
Ferragus, and Madame Jules; an occupation equiva- 
lent to that of trying to arrange the man3’-cornered 
bits of a Chinese puzzle without possessing the ke3’ to 
the game. But Madame Jules had seen him, Madame 


Ferragus. 


49 


Jules went there, Madame Jules had lied to him. 
Maulincour determined to go and see her the next da}'. 
She could not refuse his visit, for he was now her 
accomplice ; he was hands and feet in the mysterious 
affair, and she knew it. Already he felt himself a 
sultan, and thought of demanding from Madame Jules, 
imperiously, all her secrets. 

In those days Paris was seized with a building-fever. 
If Paris is a monster, it is certainly a most mania- 
ridden monster. It becomes enamoured of a thousand 
fancies : sometimes it has a mania for building, like a 
great seigneur who loves a trowel ; soon it abandons 
the trowel and becomes all military ; it arrays itself 
from head to foot as a national guard, and drills and 
smokes ; suddenly, it abandons military manoeuvres 
and flings away cigars; it is commercial, care-worn, 
falls into bankruptcy, sells its furniture on the place 
du Chatelet, files its schedule ; but a few days later, 
lo ! it has arranged its affairs and is giving fetes and 
dances. One day it eats barley-sugar by the mouthful, 
by the handful; yesterday it bought “papier Wey- 
nen ; ” to-day the monster’s teeth ache, and it applies 
to its walls an alexipharmatic to mitigate their damp- 
ness ; to-morrow it will lay in a provision of pectoral 
paste. It has its manias for the month, for the season, 
for the year, like its manias of a day. 

So, at the moment of which we speak, all the world 


4 


50 


Fefragus, 


was building or pulling down something, — people 
liardl}" knew what as yet. There were very few streets 
in which high scaffoldings on long poles could not be 
seen, fastened from floor to floor with transverse blocks 
inserted into holes in the walls on which the planks 
were laid, — a frail construction, shaken by the brick- 
layers, but held together by ropes, white with plaster, 
and insecurely protected from the wheels of carriages 
by the breastwork of planks which the law requires 
round all such buildings. There is something maritime 
in these masts, and ladders, and cordage, even in the 
shouts of the masons. About a dozen yards from the 
hotel Maulincour, one of these ephemeral barriers was 
erected before a house which was then being built of 
blocks of free-stone. The daj" after thq event we have 
just related, at the moment when the Baron de Maulin- 
cour was passing this scaffolding in his cabriolet on his 
way to see Madame Jules, a stone, two feet square, 
which was being raised to the upper store}" of this 
building, got loose from the ropes and fell, crushing 
the baron’s servant who was behind the cabriolet. A 
ciT of horror shook both the scaffold and the masons ; 
one of them, apparentl}’ unable to keep his grasp on a 
pole, was in danger of death, and seemed to have been 
touched by the stone as it passed him. 

A crowd collected rapidl}" ; the masons came down 
the ladders swearing and insisting that Monsieur de 


Ferragus. 


51 


Maulincour’s cabriolet had been driven against the 
boarding and so had shaken their crane. Two inches 
more and the stone would have fallen on the baron’s 
head. The groom was dead, the carriage shattered. 
’T was an event for the whole neighborhood, the news- 
papers told of it. Monsieur de Maulincour, certain 
that he had not touched the boarding, complained ; 
the case went to court. Inquiry being made, it was 
shown that a small boy, armed with a lath, had 
. mounted guard and called to all foot-passengers to keep 
away. The affair ended there. Monsieur de Maulin- 
cour obtained no redress. He had lost his servant, and 
was confined to his bed for some days, for the back of 
the carriage when shattered had bruised him severely, 
and the nervous shock of the sudden surprise gave him 
a fever. He did not, therefore, go to see Madame Jules. 

Ten daj’s after this event, he left the house for the 
first time, in his repaired cabriolet, when, as he drove 
down the rue de Bourgogne and was close to the sewer 
opposite to the Chamber of Deputies, the axle-tree 
broke in two, and the baron was driving so rapidl}’ that 
the breakage would have caused the two wheels to 
come together with force enough to break his head, 
had it not been for the resistance of the leather hood. 
Nevertheless, he was badly wounded in the side. For 
the second time in ten days he was carried home in a 
fainting condition to his terrified grandmother. This 


52 


Fcrragus. 


second accident gave him a feeling of distrust; he 
thought, though vaguely, of Ferragus and Madame 
Jules. To throw light on these suspicions he had the 
broken axle brought to his room and sent for his 
carriage-maker. The man examined the axle and the 
fracture, and proved two things : First, the axle was 
not made in his workshop ; he furnished none that did 
not bear the initials of his name on the iron. But he 
could not explain by what means this axle had been 
substituted for the other. Secondly, the breakage of 
the suspicious axle was caused b}" a hollow space hav- 
ing been blown in it and a straw ver^v cleverly inserted. 

“Eh! Monsieur le baron, whoever did that was 
malicious!’’ he said; “anyone would swear, to look 
at it, that the axle was sound.” 

Monsieur de Maulincour begged the carriage-maker 
to say nothing of the affair ; but he felt himself warned. 
These two attempts at murder were planned with an 
abilit}' which denoted the enmity of intelligent minds. 

“It is war to the death,” he said to himself, as he 
tossed in his bed, — “a war of savages, skulking in 
ambush, of trickery and treacherj’, declared in the 
name of Madame Jules. What sort of man is this 
to whom she belongs? What species of power does 
this Ferragus wield?” 

Monsieur de Maulincour, though a soldier and brave 
man, could not repress a shudder. In the midst of 


Ferragus. 


53 


many thoughts that now assailed him, there was one 
against which he felt he had neither defence nor cour- 
age : might not poison be emploj’ed erelong by his 
secret enemies? Under the influence of fears, which 
his momentary weakness and fever and low diet in- 
creased, he sent for an old woman long attached to 
the service of his grandmother, whose afiection for 
himself was one of those semi-maternal sentiments 
which are the sublime of the commonplace. Without 
conflding in her wholly, he charged her to buy secretly 
and daily, in diflTerent localities, the food he needed ; 
telling her to keep it under lock and key and bring 
it to him herself, not allowing any one, no matter who, 
to approach her while preparing it. He took the most 
minute precautions to protect himself against that form 
of dpath. He was ill in his bed and alone, and he 
had therefore the leisure to think of his own securit}', 
— the one necessity clear-sighted enough to enable 
human egotism to forget nothing ! 

But the unfortunate man had poisoned his own life 
by this dread, and, in spite of himself, suspicion d3’ed 
all his hours with its gloomy tints. These two lessons 
of attempted assassination did teach him, however, the 
value of one of the virtues most necessary to a public 
man ; he saw the wise dissimulation that must be prac- 
tised in dealing with the great interests of life. To 
be silent about our own secret is nothing; but to be 


54 


Ferragus. 


silent from the start, to forget a fact as Ali Pacha 
did for thirt}" 3-ears in order to be sure of a vengeance 
waited for for thirt}" 3-ears, is a fine stud3' in a land where 
there are few men who can keep their own counsel for 
thirty da3-s. Monsieur de Maulincour literally- lived only- 
through Madame Jules. He was perpetually- absorbed in 
a sober examination into the means he ought to employ 
to triumph in this mysterious struggle with' these mys- 
terious persons. His secret passion for that woman 
grew by reason of all these obstacles. Madame Jules 
was ever there, erect, in the midst of his thoughts, in 
the centre of his heart, more seductive by- her pre- 
sumable vices than by the positive virtues for which he 
had made her his idol. 

At last, anxious to reconnoitre the position of the 
enemy-, he thought he might without danger initiate the 
vidame into the secrets of his situation. The old com- 
mander loved Auguste as a father loves his wife’s chil- 
dren ; he was shrewd, dexterous, and very- diplomatic. 
He listened to the baron, shook his head, and they 
both held counsel. The worthy vidame did not share 
his young friend’s confidence when Auguste declared 
that in the times in which they- now lived, the police 
and the government were able to lay- bare all myste- 
ries, and that if it were absolutely necessary- to have 
recourse to those powers, he should find them most 
powerful auxiliaries. 


Ferragus. 


55 


The old man replied, gravely : ‘‘The police, my 
dear boy, is the most incompetent thing on this earth, 
and government the feeblest in all matters concerning 
individuals. Neither the police nor the government 
can read hearts. What we might reasonably ask of 
them is to search for the causes of an act. But the 
police and the government are both eminently unfit- 
ted for that; they lack, essentially, the personal in- 
terest, which reveals all to him who wants to know all. 
No human power can prevent an assassin or a poi- 
soner from reaching the heart of a prince or the stom- 
ach of an honest man. Passions are the best police.” 

The vidame strongly advised the baron to go to 
Italy, and from Italy to Greece, from Greece to Syria, 
from Syria to Asia, and not to return until his secret 
enemies were convinced of his repentance, and would 
so make tacit peace with him. But if he did not take 
that course, then the vidame advised him to stay in 
the house, and even in his own room, where he would 
be safe from the attempts of this man Ferragus, and 
not to leave it until he could be certain of crushing 
him. 

“We should never touch an enemy until we can be 
sure of taking his head off,” he said, gravely. 

The old man, however, promised his favorite to 
employ all the astuteness with which Heaven had pro- 
vided him (without compromising any one) in recon- 


56 


Ferragus. 


noitriiig the enemy’s ground, and laying his plans for 
future victor}". The Commander had in his service a 
retired Figaro, the wiliest monkey that ever walked in 
human form ; in earlier days as clever as a devil, 
working his body like a galle3^-slave, alert as a thief, 
sly as a woman, but now fallen into the decadence of 
genius for want of practice since the new constitution 
of Parisian societ}’, which has reformed even the valets 
of corned}’. This Scapin emeritus was attached to his 
master as to a superior being ; but the shrewd old 
vidame added a good round sum yearly to the wages 
of his former provost of gallantry, which strengthened 
the ties of natural affection by the bonds of self-inter- 
est, and obtained for the old gentleman as much care 
as the most loving mistress could bestow on a sick 
friend. It was this pearl of the old-fashioned comedy- 
valets, relic of the last century, auxiliary incorruptible 
from lack of passions to satisfy, on whom the old 
vidame and Monsieur de Maulincour now relied. 

“ Monsieur le baron will spoil all,’’ said the great 
man in livery, when called into counsel. “ Monsieur 
should eat, drink, and sleep in peace. I take the whole 
matter upon myself.” 

Accordingly, eight days after the conference, when 
Monsieur de Maulincour, perfectly restored to health, 
was breakfasting with his grandmother and the vidame, 
Justin entered to make his report. As soon as the 


Ferragus. 


57 


dowager had returned to her own apartments he said, 
with that mock modesty which men of talent are so apt 
to affect : — 

“ Ferragus is not the name of the enemy who is pur- 
suing Monsieur le baron. This man — this devil, rather 
— is called Gratien, Henri, Victor, Jean-Joseph Bou- 
rignard. The Sieur Gratien Bourignard is a former 
ship-builder, once very rich, and, above all, one of the 
handsomest men of his day in Paris, — a Lovelace, 
capable of seducing Grandison. My information stops 
short there. He has been a simple workman ; and the 
Companions of the Order of the Devorants did, at one 
time, elect him as their chief, under the title of Ferragus 
XXIII. The police ought to know that, if the police 
were instituted to know anything. The man has moved 
from the rue des Vieux-Augustins, and now roosts 
rue Joquelet, where Madame Jules Desmarets goes 
frequentl}" to see him ; sometimes her husband, on his 
way to the Bourse, drives her as far as the rue Vivienne, 
or she drives her husband to the Bourse. Monsieur le 
vidame knows about these things too well to want me 
to tell him if it is the husband who takes the wife, or 
the wife who takes the husband; but Madame Jules is 
so prett}", I ’d bet on her. All that I have told you is 
positive. Bourignard often plays at number 129. Sav- 
ing 3 ’our presence, monsieur, he ’s a rogue who loves 
women, and he has his little ways like a man of con- 


58 


Ferragus. 


dition. As for the rest, he wins sometimes, disguises 
himself like an actor, paints his face to look like any- 
thing he chooses, and lives, I may sa}', the most origi- 
nal life in the world. I don’t doubt he has a good 
many lodgings, for most of the time he manages to 
evade what Monsieur le vidame calls “ parliamentary 
investigations.” If monsieur wishes, he could be dis- 
posed of honorabl}^ seeing what his habits are. It is 
alwa3’s eas}' to get rid of a man who loves women. 
However, this capitalist talks about moving again. 
Have Monsieur le vidame and Monsieur le baron any 
other commands to give me ? ” 

“Justin, I am satisfied with 3*011; don’t go an3^ far- 
ther in the matter without m3- orders, but keep a close 
watch here, so that Monsieur le baron ma3' have noth- 
ing to fear.” 

“ My dear bo3’,” continued the vidame, when the3* 
were alone, “go back to your old life, and forget 
Madame Jules.” 

“No, no,” said Auguste ; “I will never 3’ield to 
Gratien Bourignard. I will have him bound hand and 
foot, and Madame Jules also.” 

That evening the Baron Auguste de Maulincour, 
recently promoted to higher rank in the company of 
the Bod3’-Guard of the king, went to a ball given b3" 
Madame la Duchesse de Berry at the £lysee-Bourbon. 
There, certainl3*, no danger could lurk for him; and 


Ferragus. 


59 


yet, before he left the palace, he had an affair of honor 
on his hands, — an affair it was impossible to settle 
except by a duel. 

His adversary, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, con- 
sidered that he had strong reasons to complain of 
Monsieur de Maulincour, who had given some ground 
for it during his former intimacy with Monsieur de 
Ronquerolles’ sister, the Comtesse de Serizy. That 
lady, the one who detested German sentimentalit}’, 
was all the more exacting in the matter of pruder3\ By 
one of those inexplicable fatalities, Auguste now uttered 
a harmless jest which Madame de Seriz^’ took amiss, 
and her brother resented it. The discussion took place 
in the corner of a room, in a low voice. In good soci- 
ety, adversaries never raise their voices. The next 
da}" the faubourg Saint-Germain and the Chateau 
talked over the affair. Madame de Serizy was warml}" 
defended, and all the blame was laid on Maulincour. 
August personages interfered. Seconds of the high- 
est distinction were imposed on Messieurs de Maulin- 
cour and de Ronquerolles and every precaution was 
taken on the ground that no one should be killed. 

When Auguste found himself face to face with his 
antagonist, a man of pleasure, to whom no one could 
possibly deny sentiments of the highest honor, he felt 
it was impossible to believe him the instrument of 
Ferragus, chief of the Devorants ; and yet he was 


60 


Ferragus. 


compelled, as it were, by an inexplicable presentiment, 
to question the marquis. 

“Messieurs,” he said to the seconds, “I certainly 
do not refuse to meet the fire of Monsieur de Ron- 
querolles ; but before doing so, I here declare that I 
was to blame, and I offer him whatever excuses he 
may desire, and publicl}^ if he wishes it ; because when 
the matter concerns a woman, nothing, I think, can 
degrade a man of honor. I therefore appeal to his 
generosity and good sense ; is there not something 
rather silly in fighting without a cause ? ” 

Monsieur de Ronquerolles would not allow of this 
way of ending the affair, and then the baron, his sus- 
picions revived, walked up to him. 

“ Well, then ! Monsieur le marquis,” he said, “pledge 
me, in presence of these gentlemen, your word as a 
gentleman that you have no other reason for vengeance 
than that 3'ou have chosen to put forward.” 

“ Monsieur, that is a question you have no right to 
ask.” 

So saying. Monsieur de Ronquerolles took his place. 
It was agreed, in advance, that the adversaries were 
to be satisfied with one exchange of shots. Monsieur 
de Ronquerolles, in spite of the great distance deter- 
mined by the seconds, which seemed to make the death 
of either party problematical, if not impossible, brought 
down the baron. The ball went through the latter’s 


Ferragus. 61 

body just below the heart, but fortunately without 
doing vital injury. 

“You aimed too well, monsieur,” said the baron, 
“ to be avenging only a paltry quarrel.” 

And he fainted. Monsieur de Ronquerolles, who 
believed him to be a dead man, smiled sardonically as 
he heard those words. 

After a fortnight, during which time the dowager 
and the vidame gave him those cares of old age the se- 
cret of which is in the hands of long experience only, 
the baron began to return to life. But one morning 
his grandmother dealt him a crushing blow, by reveal- 
ing anxieties to which, in her last da3’s, she was now 
subjected. She showed him a letter signed F, in which 
the histor}" of her grandson’s secret espionage was re- 
counted step b}' step. The letter accused Monsieur de 
Maulincour of actions that were unworthy of a man of 
honor. He had, it said, placed an old w^oman at the 
stand of hackne3’-coaches in the rue de Menars ; an old 
sp3’, who pretended to sell water from her cask to the 
coachmen, but who was reall3’ there to v/atch the ac- 
tions of Madame Jules Desmarets. He had spied 
upon the dail3" life of a most inoffensive man, in order 
to detect his secrets, — secrets on which depended the 
lives of three persons. He had brought upon himself 
a relentless struggle, in which, although he had escaped 
with life three times, he must inevitably^ succumb. 


62 


Ferragus. 


because his death had been sworn and would be com- 
passed if all human means were emploj’ed upon it. 
Monsieur de Maulincour could no longer escape his 
fate by even promising to respect the m3’sterious life 
of these three persons, because it was impossible to 
believe the word of a gentleman who had fallen to the 
level of a police-spy : and for what reason ? Merely to 
trouble the respectable life of an innocent woman and 
a harmless old man. 

The letter itself was nothing to Auguste in compari- 
son with the tender reproaches of his grandmother. To 
lack respect to a woman ! to spy upon her actions 
without a right to do so ! Ought a man ever to spy 
upon a woman whom he loved? — in short, she poured 
out a torrent of those excellent reasons which prove 
nothing; and they put the 3’oung baron, for the first 
time in his life, into one of those great human furies in 
which are born, and from which issue the most vital 
actions of a man’s life. 

“ Since it is war to the knife,” he said in conclusion, 
“ I shall kill my enemy by any means that I can la}" 
hold of.’’ 

The vidame went immediately^ at Auguste’s request, 
to the chief of the private police of Paris, and without 
bringing Madame Jules’ name or person into the narra- 
tive, although they were really the gist of it, he made 
the official aware of the fears of the family of Maulin- 


Ferragus. 


63 


cour about this mysterious person who was bold enough 
to swear the death of an officer of the Guards, in de- 
fiance of the law and the police. The chief pushed up 
his green spectacles in amazement, blew his nose sev- 
eral times, and offered snuff to the vidame, who, to 
save his dignity, pretended not to use tobacco, although 
his own nose was discolored with it. Then the chief 
took notes and promised, Vidocq and his spies aiding, 
to send in a report within a few days to the Maulincour 
family, assuring them meantime that there were no 
secrets for the police of Paris. 

A few days after this the police official called to 
see the vidame at the Hotel de Maulincour, where 
he found the young baron quite recovered from his 
last wound. He gave them in bureaucratic style his 
thanks for the indications the}" had afforded him, and 
told them that Bourignard was a convict, condemned 
to twenty years’ hard labor, who had miraculously 
escaped from a gang which was being transported 
from Bicetre to Toulon. For thirteen years the po- 
lice had been endeavoring to recapture him, knowing 
that he had boldly returned to Paris ; but so far this 
convict had escaped the most active search, although 
he was known to be mixed up in many nefarious 
deeds. However, the man, whose life was full ^of 
vei-y curious incidents, would certainly be captured 
now in one or other of his several domiciles and 


64 


Ferragus. 


delivered up to justice. The bureaucrat ended his 
report b}’ saying to Monsieur de Maulincour that if 
he attached enough importance to the matter to wish 
to witness the capture of Bourignard, he might come 
the next da}" at eight in the morning to a house in 
the rue Sainte-Foi, of which he gave him the number. 
Monsieur de Maulincour excused himself from going 
personally in search of certainty, — trusting, with the 
sacred respect inspired by the police of Paris, in the 
capability of the authorities. • 

Three days later, hearing nothing, and seeing noth- 
ing in the newspapers about the projected arrest, 
which was certainly of enough importance to have 
furnished an article. Monsieur de Maulincour was 
beginning to feel anxieties which were presently 
allayed by the following letter : — 

Monsieur le Baron, — I have the honor to announce 
to you that you need have no further uneasiness touching 
the affair in question. The man named Gratien Bouri- 
gnard, otherwise called Ferragus, died yesterday, at his 
lodgings, rue Joquelet No. 7. The suspicions we naturally 
conceived as to the identity of the dead body have been 
completely set at rest by the facts. The physician of the 
Prefecture of police was despatched by us to assist the phy- 
sician of the arrondissement, and the chief of the detective 
police made all the necessary verifications to obtain absolute 
certainty. Moreover, the character of the persons who signed 
the certificate of death, and the affidavits of those who took 
care of the said Bourignard in his last illness, among others 


Ferragus. 


65 


that of the worthy vicar of the church of the Bonne-Nouvelle 
(to whom he made his last confession, for h^ died a Chris- 
tian), do not permit us to entertain any sort of doubt. 

Accept, Monsieur le baron, etc., etc. 

Monsieur de Maulincour, the dowager, and the 
vidame breathed again with joy unspeakable. The 
good old woman kissed her grandson leaving a tear 
upon his cheek, and went away to thank God in 
prayer. The dear soul, who was making a novena 
for Auguste’s safety, believed her prayers were an- 
swered. 

“Well,” said the vidame, “now you had better 
show yourself at the ball you were speaking of. I 
oppose no further objections.” 


66 


Ferragus. 


III. 

THE WIFE ACCUSED. 

Monsieur de Maulincourt was all the more anxious 
to go to this ball because he knew that Madame Jules 
would be present. The fete was given by the Prefect 
of the Seine, in whose salons the two social worlds 
of Paris met as on neutral ground. Auguste passed 
through the rooms without finding the woman who 
now exercised so mighty an infiuence on his fate. 
He entered an empty boudoir where card-tables were 
placed awaiting players ; and sitting down on a divan 
he gave himself up to the most contradictoiy thoughts 
about her. A man presently took the young officer by 
the arm, and looking up the baron was stupefied to 
behold the pauper of the rue Coquilliere, the Ferragus 
of Ida, the lodger in the rue Soh’, the Bourignard of 
Justin, the convict of the police, and the dead man of 
the day before. 

“ Monsieur, not a sound, not a word,” said Bouri- 
gnard, whose voice he recognized. The man was 
elegantly dressed ; he wore the order of the Golden- 
Fleece, and a medal on his coat. Monsieur,’’ he con- 
tinued, and his voice was sibilant like that of a hyena. 


Ferragus. 


67 


“you increase ray efforts against j’ou by having re- 
course to the police. You will perish, monsieur; it 
has now become necessary. Do you love Madame 
Jules? Are you beloved by her? By what right do 
you trouble her peaceful life, and blacken her virtue?” 

Some one entered the card-room. Ferragus rose 
to go. 

“ Do you know this man?” asked Monsieur de Mau- 
lincour of the new-comer, seizing Ferragus b\’ the col- 
lar. But Ferragus quickly disengaged himself, took 
Monsieur de Maulincour by the hair, and shook his 
head rapidly. 

“ Must you have lead in it to make it steady?’’ he 
said. 

“I do not know him personally,” replied Henri de 
Marsay, the spectator of this scene, “ but I know that 
he is Monsieur de Funcal, a rich Portuguese.” 

Monsieur de Funcal had disappeared. The baron 
followed but without being able to overtake him until 
he reached the peristyle, where he saw Ferragus, who 
looked at him with a jeering laugh from a brilliant 
equipage which was driven away at high speed. 

“ Monsieur,” said Auguste, re-entering the salon and 
addressing de Marsay, whom he knew, “ I entreat you 
to tell me where Monsieur de Funcal lives.” 

“ I do not know ; but some one here can no doubt 
tell 3'ou.” 


Ferragus. 


68 . 

The baron, having questioned the prefect, ascer- 
tained that the Comte de Funcal lived at the Portu- 
guese embassy. At this moment, while he still felt the 
icy fingers of that strange man in his hair, he saw 
Madame Jules in all her dazzling beauty, fresh, gra- 
cious, artless, resplendent with the sanctity of woman- 
hood which had won his love. This creature, now 
infernal to him, excited no emotion in his soul but that 
of hatred ; and this hatred shone in a savage, terrible 
look from his eyes. He watched for the moment when 
he could speak to her unheard, and then he said : — 

‘‘Madame, your hravi have missed me three times.” 

“What can j’ou mean, monsieur?” she said, fiush- 
ing. “I know that you have had several unfortunate 
accidents latel}- , which I have greatly regretted ; but 
how could I have had anything to do with them?” 

“You knew that hram were employed against me 
by that man of the rue Soly?’^ 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

“ Madame, I now call you to account, not for my 
happiness only, but for my blood — ” 

At this instant Jules Desmarets approached them. 

“What are you saying to my wife, monsieur?” 

“Make that inquiry at my own house, monsieur, if 
you are curious,” said Maulincour, moving away, and 
leaving Madame Jules in an almost fainting condition. 

There are few women who have not found them- 


Ferragus. 


69 


selves, once at least in their lives, d propos of some 
undeniable fact, confronted with a direct, sharp, un- 
compromising question, — one of those questions piti- 
lessl}' asked husbands, the mere apprehension of 
which gives a chill, while the actual words enter the 
heart like the blade of a dagger. It is from such 
crises that the maxim has come, “ All women lie.” 
Falsehood, kindl}' falsehood, venial falsehood, sublime 
falsehood, horrible falsehood, — but always the neces- 
sity to lie. This necessity admitted, ought they not to 
know how to lie well? French women do it admirably. 
Our manners and customs teach them deception ! Be- 
sides, women are so naively saucy, so pretty, graceful, 
and withal so true in lying, — they recognize so fully 
the utilitj’ of doing so in order to avoid in social life 
the violent shocks which happiness might not resist, — 
that lying is seen to be as necessary to their lives as 
the cottonwool in which they put awa}" their jewels. 
Falsehood becomes to them the foundation of speech ; 
truth is exceptional ; the}^ tell it, if they are virtuous, 
by caprice or by calculation. According to individual 
character, some women laugh when they lie ; others 
weep ; others are grave ; some grow angry. After 
beginning life by feigning indifference to the homage 
that deeply flatters them, they often end by lying to 
themselves. Who has not admired their apparent 
superiority to everything at the ver}’ moment when 


70 


Ferragus. 


the}" are trembling for the secret treasures of their 
love? Who has never studied their ease, their readi- 
ness, their freedom of mind in the greatest embarass- 
ments of life? In them, nothing is put on. Deception 
comes as the snow from heaven. -And then, with what 
art they discover the truth in others ! With what 
shrewdness they employ a direct logic in answer to 
some passionate question which has revealed to them 
the secret of the heart of a man who was guileless 
enough to proceed by questioning! To question a 
woman ! why, that is delivering one’s self up to her ; 
does she not learn in that way all that we seek to 
hide from her? Does she not know also how to be 
dumb, though speaking? What men are daring enough 
to struggle with the Parisian woman? — a w^oman who 
knows how to hold herself above all dagger thrusts, 
saying : “ You are very inquisitive ; what is it to you ? 
Why do wish to know ? Ah ! you are jealous ! And 
suppose I do not choose to answer you ? ” — in short, a 
woman who possesses the hundred and thirty-seven 
methods of saying Wo, and incommensurable variations 
of the word Yes. Is not a treatise on the words yes and 
no, a fine diplomatic, philosophic, logographic, and moral 
work, still waiting to be written ? But to accomplish 
this work, which we may also call diabolic, is n’t an 
androgynous genius necessary ? For that reason^ prob- 
ably, it will never be attempted. And besides, of 


Ferragus. 


71 


all unpublished works is n’t it the best known and the 
best practised among women? Have 3’ou studied the 
behavior, the pose, the disinvoltura of a falsehood? 
Examine it. 

Madame Desmarets was seated in the right-hand 
corner of her carriage, her husband in the left. Having 
forced herself to recover from her emotion in' the ball- 
room, she now affected a calm demeanor. Her husband 
had then said nothing to her, and he still said nothing. 
Jules looked out of the carriage window at the black 
walls of the silent houses before which they passed ; 
but suddenl)’, as if driven by a determining thought, 
when turning the corner of a street he examined his 
wife, who appeared to be cold in spite of the fur-lined 
pelisse in which she was wrapped. He thought she 
seemed pensive, and perhaps she was reallj" so. Of all 
communicable things, reflection and graviU’ are the 
most contagious. 

“ What could Monsieur de Maulincour have said to 
affect \ ou so keenl}’?” said Jules ; “ and wh}^ does he 
wdsh me to go to his house and find out? ” 

“ He can tell you nothing in his house that I cannot 
tell you here,” she replied. 

Then, with that feminine craft which alwa^^s slightly 
degrades virtue, Madame Jules waited for another 
question. Her husband turned his face back to 
the houses, and continued his study of their walls. 


72 


Ferragics. 


Another question would impl}" suspicion, distrust. To 
suspect a woman is a crime in love. Jules had already 
killed a man for doubting his wife. Clemence did not 
know all there was of true passion, of loyal reflection, 
in her husband’s silence; just as Jules was ignorant of 
the generous drama that was wringing the heart of his 
Clemence. 

The carriage rolled on through a silent Paris, bear- 
ing the couple, — two lovers who adored each other, 
and who, gently leaning on the same silken cushion, 
were being parted by an abyss. In these elegant 
coupes returning from a ball between midnight and 
two in the morning, how many curious and singular 
scenes must pass, — meaning those coupes with lan- 
terns, which light both the street and the carriage, 
those with their windows unshaded ; in short, legiti- 
mate coupes, in which couples can quarrel without 
caring for the eyes of pedestrians, because the civil 
code gives a right to provoke, or beat, or kiss, a 
wife in a carriage or elsewhere, anywhere, every- 
where ! How many secrets must be revealed in this 
wa}’ to nocturnal pedestrians, — to those young fellows 
who have gone to a ball in a carriage, but are obliged, 
for whatever cause it may be, to return on foot. It 
was the first time that Jules and Clemence had been 
together thus, — each in a corner; usually the husband 
pressed close to his wife. 


Ferragus. 


73 


“ It is very cold,” remarked Madame Jules. 

But her husband did not hear her ; he was studying 
the signs above the shop windows. 

“ Clemence,” he said at last, “ forgive me the ques- 
tion I am about to ask you.” 

He came closer, took her by the waist, and drew her 
to him. 

“ My God, it is coming ! ” thought the poor woman. 
“ Well,” she said aloud, anticipating the question, 
“3’ou want to know what Monsieur de Maulincour said 
to me. I will tell you, Jules ; but not without fear. 
Good God ! how is it possible that you and I should 
have secrets from one another? For the last few mo- 
ments I have seen you struggling between a conviction 
of our love and vague fears. But that conviction is 
clear within us, is it not? And these doubts and fears, 
do the}" not seem to you dark and unnatural? Why 
not stay in that clear light of love you cannot doubt? 
When I have told you all, you will still desire to know 
more ; and yet I myself do not know what the ex- 
traordinary words of that man meant. What I fear is 
that this may lead to some fatal alfair between you. I 
would rather that we both forget this unpleasant mo- 
ment. But, in any case, swear to me that you will let 
this singular adventure explain itself naturally. Here 
are the facts. Monsieur de Maulincour declared to me 
that the three accidents you have heard mentioned — - 


74 


Ferragus. 


the falling of a stone on his servant, the breaking down 
of his cabriolet, and his duel about Madame de Serizy 
— were the result of some plot I had laid against him. 
He also threatened to reveal to 3’ou the cause of m3’ 
desire to destro}’ him. Can 3’ou imagine what all this 
means? M3’ emotion came from the sight of his face 
convulsed with madness, his haggard e3'es, and also 
his words, broken b3’ some violent inward emotion. I 
thought him mad. That is all that took place. Now, 
I should be less than a woman if I had not perceived 
that for over a year I have become, as the3" call it, the 
passion of Monsieur de Maulincour. He has never 
seen me except at a ball ; and our intercourse has been 
most insignificant, — merel3’ that which ever3’ one 
shares at a ball. Perhaps he wants to disunite us, so 
that he may find me at some future time alone and 
unprotected. There, see I alread3" 3’ou are frowning ! 
Oh, how cordially I hate society! We w’ere so happy 
without him; why take any notice of him? Jules, I 
entreat you, forget all this ! To-morrow we shall, no 
doubt, hear that Monsieur de Maulincour has gone 
mad.’’ 

“What a singular affair!” thought Jules, as the 
carriage stopped under the peristyle of their house. 
He gave his arm to his wife and together the3’ went up 
to their apartments. 

To develop this history in all its truth of detail, and 


Ferragus. 


75 


to follow its coiii se through many windings, it is neces- 
sary here to divulge some of love’s secrets, to glide 
beneath the ceilings of a marriage chamber, not shame- 
lessly, but like Trilby, frightening neither Dougal nor 
Jeannie, alarming no one, — being as chaste as our 
noble French language requires, and as bold as the 
pencil of Gerard in his picture of Daphnis and Chloe. 

The bedroom of Madame Jules was a sacred spot. 
Herself, her husband, and her maid alone entered it. 
Opulence has glorious privileges, and the most envi- 
able are those which enable the development of senti- 
ments to their fullest extent, — fertilizing them b}’ the 
accomplishment of even their caprices, and surrounding 
them with a brilliancy that enlarges them, with refine- 
ments that purify them, with a thousand delicacies that 
make them still more alluring. If you hate dinners on 
the grass, and meals ill-served, if 3’ou feel a pleasure 
in seeing a damask cloth that is dazzlingl^’ white, a 
silver-gilt dinner service, and porcelain of exquisite 
purit3% lighted bj’ transparent candles, where miracles 
of cooker^’ are served under silver covers bearing coats 
of arms, you must, to be consistent, leave the garrets 
at the tops of the houses, and the grisettes in the streets, 
abandon garrets, grisettes, umbrellas, and overshoes to 
men who pa^^ for their dinners with tickets ; and 3’ou 
must also comprehend Love to be a principle which 
develops in all its grace only on Savonnerie carpets, be- 


76 


Ferragus. 


neatli the opal gleams of an alabaster lamp, between 
guarded walls silk-hung, before gilded hearths in cham- 
bers deadened to all outward sounds by shutters and 
billowy curtains. Mirrors must be there to show the 
play of form and repeat the woman we would multiply 
as love itself multiplies and magnifies her ; next low 
divans, and a bed which, like a secret, is divined, not 
shown. In this coquettish chamber are fur-lined slip- 
pers for pretty feet, wax-candles under glass with 
muslin draperies, by which to read at all hours of the 
night, and flowers, not those oppressive to the head, 
and linen, the fineness of which might have satisfied 
Anne of Austria. 

Madame Jules had realized this charming programme, 
but that was nothing. All women of taste can do as 
much, though there is alwa^'s in the arrangement of 
these details a stamp of personalit}’ which gives to this 
decoration or that detail a character that cannot be 
imitated. To-da}", more than ever, reigns the fanati- 
cism of individuality. The more our laws tend to an 
impossible equalit}^, the more we shall get away from it 
in our manners and customs. Thus, rich people are 
beginning, in France, to become more exclusive in 
their tastes and their belongings, than they have been 
for the last thirty years. Madame Jules knew very 
well how to carry out this programme ; and everything 
about her was arranged in harmony with a luxury that 


Ferragus. 


77 


suits so well with love. Love in a cottage, or Fifteen 
hundred francs and my Sophy,” is the dream of starve- 
lings to whom black bread suffices, in their present 
state ; but when love really comes, they grow fastidious 
and end by craving the luxuries of gastronomy. Love 
holds toil and povert}" in horror. It would rather die' 
than merely live on from hand to mouth. 

Many women, returning from a ball, impatient for 
their beds, throw off their gowns, their faded flowers, 
their bouquets, the fragrance of which has now de- 
parted. They leave their little shoes beneath a chair, 
the white strings trailing ; they take out their combs 
and let their hair roll down as it will. Little they care 
if their husbands see the puffs, the hairpins, the artful 
props which supported the elegant edifice of the hair, 
and the garlands or the jewels that adorned it. No 
’more mysteries ! all is over for the husband ; no more 
painting or decoration for him. The corset — half the 
time it is a corset of a reparative kind — lies where it 
is thrown, if the maid is too sleepy to take it away with 
her. The whalebone bustle, the oiled-silk protections 
round the sleeves, the pads, the hair bought from a 
coiffeur, all the false woman is there, scattered about 
in open sight. Disjecta membra poetce^ the artificial 
poesy, so much admired by those for whom it is con- 
ceived and elaborated, the fragments of a prettj^ woman, 
litter every corner of the room. To the love of a yawn- 


78 


Ferragus. 


ing husband, the actual woman presents herself, also 
yawning, in a dishabille without elegance, and a 
tumbled night-cap, that of last night and that of to- 
morrow night also, — “For reallj’, monsieur, if you 
want a pretty cap to rumple every night, increase my 
pin-money.” 

There ’s life as it is ! A woman makes herself old 
and unpleasing to her husband ; but dainty and elegant 
and adorned for others, for the rival of all husbands, — 
for that world which calumniates and tears to shreds 
her sex. 

Inspired by true love, for Love has, like other crea- 
tions, its instinct of preservation, Madame Jules did 
very differently ; she found in the constant blessing of 
her love the necessary impulse to fulfil all those mi- 
nute personal cares which ought never to be relaxed, 
because they perpetuate love. Besides, such personal* 
cares and duties proceed from a personal dignity which 
becomes all women, and are among the sweetest of 
flatteries, for is it not respecting in themselves the man 
they love ? 

So Madame Jules denied to her husband all access to 
her dressing-room, where she left the accessories of her 
toilet, and whence she issued m3’steriously adorned for 
the mysterious fetes of her heart. Entering their cham- 
ber, which was always graceful and elegant, Jules found 
a woman coquettishly wrapped in a charming 'peignoir^ 


Ferragus. 


79 


her hair simply wound in heavy coils around her head ; 
a woman always more simple, more beautiful there 
than she was before the world ; a woman just refreshed 
in water, whose only artifice consisted in being whiter 
than her muslins, sweeter than all perfumes, more 
seductive than any siren, always loving and there- 
fore always loved. This admirable understanding of 
a wife’s business was the secret of Josephine’s charm 
for Napoleon, as in former times it was that of 
Csesonia for Caius Caligula, of Diane de Poitiers for 
Henri II. If it was largely productive to women of 
seven or eight lustres what a weapon is it in the hands 
of young women ! A husband gathers with delight the 
rewards of his fidelit3\ 

Returning home after the conversation which had 
chilled her with fear, and still gave her the keenest 
anxiet}^, Madame Jules took particular pains with her 
toilet for the night. She wanted to make herself, and 
she did make herself enchanting. She belted the 
cambric of her dressing-gown round her waist, defining 
the lines of her bust ; she allowed her hair to fall upon 
her beautifully modelled shoulders. A perfumed bath 
had given her a delightful fragrance, and her little bare 
feet were in velvet slippers. Strong in a sense of her 
advantages she came in stepping ^softly, and put her 
hands over her husband’s eyes. She thought him 
pensive ; he was standing in his dressing-gown before 


80 


Ferragus. 


the fire, his elbow on the mantel and one foot on the 
fender. She said in his ear, warming it with her 
breath, and nibbling the tip of it with her teeth : — 

“What are 5’ou thinking about, monsieur?’’ 

Then she pressed him in her arms as if to tear him 
away from all evil thoughts. The woman who loves 
has a full knowledge of her power ; the more virtuous 
she is, the more effectual is her coquetry. 

“ About you,” he answered. 

“ Only about me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Ah ! that’s a very doubtful ‘ 5’es.’ ” 

They went to bed. As she fell asleep, Madame Jules 
said to herself : — 

“Monsieur de Maulincour will certainly cause some 
evil. Jules’ mind is preoccupied, disturbed ; he is 
nursing thoughts he does not tell me.” 

It was three in the morning when Madame Jules 
was awakened by a presentiment which struck her 
heart as she slept. She had a sense both physical 
and moral of her husband’s absence. She did not 
feel the arm Jules passed beneath her head, — that 
arm in which she had slept, peaceful and happy, for 
five years ; an arm she had never w'earied. A 
voice said to her, “Jules suffers, Jules is weeping.” 
She raised her head, and then sat up ; felt that her 
husband’s place was cold, and saw him sitting before 


Ferragus. 


81 


the fire, his feet on the fender, his head resting 
against the back of an arm-chair. Tears were on his 
cheeks. The poor woman threw herself hastily from 
her bed and sprang at a bound to her husband’s 
knees. 

“ Jules ! what is it? Are 3’ou ill? Speak, tell me ! 
Speak to me, if 3’ou love me ! ” and she poured out a 
hundred words expressing the deepest tenderness. 

Jules knelt at her feet, kissed her hands and knees, 
and answered with fresh tears : — 

“Dear Clemence, I am most unhappj’ ! It is not 
loving to distrust the one we love. I adore you and 
suspect you. The words that man said to me to-night 
have struck to my heart ; the^’ stay there in spite of 
myself, and confound me. There is some mystery 
here. In short, and I blush to sa^' it, your explana- 
tions do not satisfy me. My reason casts gleams into 
my soul which my love rejects. It is an awful combat. 
Could I stay there, holding 3’our head, and suspecting 
thoughts within it to me unknown ? Oh ! I believe in 
you, I believe in 3’ou ! ” he cried, seeing her smile 
sadl3" and open her mouth as if to speak. “ Sa3" 
nothing ; do not reproach me. A word of blame from 
3'ou would kill me. Besides, could 3’ou say an3’thing 
I have not said to myself fpr tlie last three hours? 
Yes, for three hours, I have been here, watching you 
as 3’ou slept, so beautiful ! admiring that pure, peace- 


82 


Ferragus. 


ful brow. Yes, yes ! yon have always told me your 
thoughts, have you not? I alone am in that soul. 
While I look at you, while my eyes can plunge into 
yours I see all plainly. Your life is as pure as 3’our 
glance is clear. No, there is no secret behind those 
transparent ej^es.” He rose and kissed their lids. “ Let 
me avow to 3'oa, dearest soul,” he said, “ that for the 
last five years -each day has increased m3^ happiness, 
through the knowledge that 3’ou are all mine, and that 
no natural affection even can take any of 3’our love. 
Having no sister, no father, no mother, no companion, 
I am neither above nor below an3’ living being in youi 
heart ; I am alone there. Clemence, repeat to me 
those sweet things of the spirit 3’ou have so often 
said to me ; do not blame me ; comfort me, I am 
so unhapp3\ I have an odious suspicion on my con- 
science, and you have nothing in your heart to sear 
it. My beloved, tell me, could I stay* there beside 
3'ou? Could two heads united as ours have been lie 
on the same pillow when one was suffering and the 
other tranquil? What are 3’ou thinking of?” he cried 
abruptl3*, observing that Clemence was anxious, con- 
fused, and seemed unable to restrain her tears. 

“ I am thinking of m3" mother,” she answered, in a 
grave voice. “You will never know, Jules, what I 
suffer in remembering my mother’s dying farewell, said 
in a voice sweeter than all music, and in feeling the 


Ferragus. 


83 


solemn touch of her ic}’’ hand at a moment when 3'ou over- 
whelm me with those assurances of your precious love.” 

She raised her husband, strained him to her with a 
nervous force greater than that of men, and kissed 
his hair, covering it witli tears. 

“ Ah ! I would be hacked in pieces for 3’ou ! Tell me 
that I make 3’ou happ}^ ; that I am to you the most beau- 
tiful of women — a thousand women to you. Oh! you 
are loved as no other man ever was or will be. I don’t 
know the meaning of those words ‘ duty,’ ‘ virtue.’ 
Jules, I love you for yourself ; I am happ\’ in loving 3’ou ; 
I shall love you more and more to my dying da3\ 1 
have pride in my love ; I feel it is 013’ destin3^ to have 
one sole emotion in m3' life. What I shall tell you now 
is dreadful, I know — but I am glad to have no child ; I 
do not wish for an3'. I feel I am more wife than mother. 
Well, then, can you fear? Listen to me, m3’’ own be- 
loved, promise to forget, not this hour of mingled tender- 
ness and doubt, but the words of that madman. Jules, 
3'ou must. Promise me not to see him, not to go to him. 
I have a deep conviction that if you set one foot into 
that maze we shall both roll down a precipice wdiere 
I shall perish — but with your name upon my lips, your 
heart in my heart. Whv’ hold me so high in that heart 
and yet so low in realit3’? What I 3'ou who give credit 
to so many as to money, can you not give me the 
charity of faith? And on the first occasion in our lives 


84 


Ferragus. 


when 3'ou might prove to me 3’our boundless trust, do 
3’ou cast me from m3" throne in 3’our heart? Between 
a madman and me, it is the madman whom 3"ou choose 
to believe? oh, Jules! ’’ She stopped, threw back the 
hair that fell about her brow and neck, and then, in a 
heart-rending tone, she added : “ I have said too much ; 
one word should suffice. If your soul and 3"our fore- 
head still keep this cloud, however light it be, I tell 
you now that I shall die of it.” 

She could not repress a shudder, and turned pale. 

“Oh! I will kill that man,” thought Jules, as he 
lifted his wife in his arms and carried her to her bed. 

‘^Let us sleep in peace, my angel,” he said. “I 
have forgotten all, 1 swear it ! ” 

Clemence fell asleep to the music of those sweet 
words, softly repeated. Jules, as he watched her sleep- 
ing, said in his heart : — 

“She is right; when love is so pure, suspicion 
blights it. To that young soul, that tender flower, a 
blight — 3’es, a blight means death.’’ 

When a cloud comes between two beings filled with 
affection for each other and whose lives are in abso- 
lute unison, that cloud, though it may disperse, leaves 
in these souls a trace of its passage. Either love gains 
a stronger life, as the earth after rain, or the shock 
still echoes like distant thunder through a cloudless 
sk3". It is impossible to recover absolutely the former 
life ; love will either increase or diminish. 


Ferragus. 


85 


At breakfast, Monsieur and Madame Jules showed 
to each other those particular attentions in which there 
is alwaj’s something of affectation. There were glances 
of forced gayety, which seemed the effort of persons 
endeavoring to deceive themselves. Jules had invol- 
untary doubts, his wife had positive fears. Still, sure 
of each other, they had slept. Was this strained con- 
dition the effect of a want of faith, or was it only a 
memory of their nocturnal scene? They did not know 
themselves. But they loved each other so purel}" that 
the impression of that scene, both cruel and beneficent, 
could not fail to leave its traces in their souls ; both 
were eager to make those traces disappear, each striv- 
ing to be the first to return to the other, and thus they 
could not fail to think of the cause of tlieir first vari- 
ance. To loving souls, this is not grief; pain is still 
far-off ; but it is a sort of mourning, which is diffi- 
cult to depict. If there are, indeed, relations between 
colors and the emotions of the soul, if, as Locke’s 
blind man said, scarlet produces on the sight the effect 
produced on the hearing by a blast of trumpets, it is 
permissible to compare this reacUon of melancholy to 
mourning tones of gra3\ 

But even so, love saddened, love in which remains a 
true sentiment of its happiness, momentarily troubled 
though it be, gives enjo3’ments derived from pain and 
pleasure both, which are all novel. Jules studied his 


86 


Ferragus. 


wife’s voice ; he watched her glances with the fresh- 
ness of feeling that inspired him in the earliest days 
of his passion for her. The memoiy of five absolutely" 
happy j^ears, her beauty, the candor of her love, quickly 
effaced in her husband’s mind the last vestiges of an 
intolerable pain. 

The day was Sunday, — a day on which there was 
no Bourse and no business to be done. The reunited 
pair passed the whole day" together, getting farther in- 
to each other’s hearts than they" ever yet had done, 
like two children who in a moment of fear, hold each 
other closely" and cling together, united by an instinct. 
There are in this life of two-in-one completely’ happy^ 
days, the gift of chance, ephemeral fiowers, born 
neither of yesterday nor belonging to the morrow. 
Jules and Clemence now enjoy’cd this day as though 
they- foreboded it to be the last of their loving life. 
What name shall we give to that mysterious power 
which hastens the steps of travellers before the storm 
is visible ; which makes the life and beauty of the dye- 
ing so resplendent, and fills the parting soul with joy^- 
ous projects for days before death comes ; which tells 
the midnight student to fill his lamp when it shines 
brightest ; and makes the mother fear the thoughtful 
look cast upon her infant by- an observing man? We 
all are affected by this influence in the great catastro- 
phes of life ; but it has never yet been named or stud- 


Ferragus. 87 

ied ; it is something more than presentiment, but not 
as 3’et clear vision. 

All went well till the following da}’. On Monday, 
Jules Desmarets, obliged to go to the Bourse on his 
usual business, asked his wife, as usual, if she would 
take advantage of his carriage and let him drive her 
anywhere. 

“ No,” she said, “ the day is too unpleasant to go 
out.” 

It was raining in torrents. At half-past two o’clock 
Monsieur Desmarets reached the Treasury. At four 
o’clock, as he left the Bourse, he came face to face with 
Monsieur de Maulincour, who was waiting for him with 
the nervous pertinacity of hatred and vengeance. 

“ Monsieur,” he said, taking Monsieur Desmarets by 
the arm, “ I have important information to give you. 
Listen to me. I am too loyal a man to have recourse 
to anonymous letters with which to trouble your peace 
of mind ; I prefer to speak to you in person. Believe 
me, if my very life were not concerned, I should not 
meddle with the private affairs of any household, even 
if I thought I had the right to do so.” 

“ If what you have to say to me concerns Madame 
Desmarets,” replied Jules, “ I request you to be silent, 
monsieur.” 

“ If I am silent, monsieur, you may before long see 
Madame Jules on the prisoner’s bench at the court of 


88 Ferragus. 

assizes beside a convict. Now, do j’ou wish me to be 
silent?” 

Jules turned pale; but his noble face instantl}' re- 
sumed its calmness, though it was now a false calm- 
ness. Drawing the baron under one of the temporary 
sheds of the Bourse, near which they were standing, 
he said to him in a voice which concealed his intense 
inward emotion : — 

“ Monsieur, I will listen to you ; but there will be a 
duel to the death between us if — ” 

“Oh, to that I consent!” cried Monsieur de Mau- 
lincour. ‘‘ I have the greatest esteem for j’our charac- 
ter. You speak of death. You are unaware that your 
wife may have assisted in poisoning me last Saturday 
night. Yes, monsieur, since then some extraordinary 
evil has developed in me. M3’ hair appears to distil 
an inward fever and a deadly languor through m3" 
skull ; I know who clutched my hair at that ball.” 

Monsieur de Maulincour then related, without omit- 
ting a single fact, his platonic love for Madame Jules, 
and the details of the atfair in the rue Soly which 
began this narrative. An3’ one would have listened to 
him with attention ; but Madame Jules’ husband had 
good reason to be more amazed than any other human 
being. Here his character displa3’ed itself; he was 
more amazed than overcome. Made a judge, and the 
judge of an adored woman, he found in his soul the 


Ferragus. 


89 


equity of a judge as well as the inflexibilit3\ A lover 
still, he thought less of his own shattered life than of 
his wife’s life ; he listened, not to his own anguish, but 
to some far-off voice that cried to him, “ Clemence 
cannot lie ! Why should she betray you ? ’’ 

“ Monsieur,” said the baron, as he ended, “ being 
absolutely' certain of having recognized in Monsieur de 
Funcal the same Ferragus whom the police declared 
dead, I have put upon his traces an intelligent man. 
As I returned that night I remembered, by' a fortunate 
chance, the name of Madame Meynardie, mentioned in 
that letter of Ida, the presumed mistress of my' perse- 
cutor. Supplied with this clue, my emissary will soon 
get to the bottom of this horrible affair ; for he is 
far more able to discover the truth than the police 
themselves.” 

“Monsieur,” replied Desmarets, “I know not how 
to thank you for this confidence. You say that you 
can obtain proofs and witnesses ; I shall await them. I 
shall seek the truth of this strange affair courageously ; 
but y'ou must permit me to doubt everything until the 
evidence of the facts you state is proved to me. In any 
case y'ou shall have satisfaction, for, as you will cer- 
tainly^ understand, we both require it.’’ 

Jules returned home. 

“What is the matter, Jules?” asked his wife, when 
she saw him. “ You look so pale you frighten me ! ” 


90 


Ferragus. 


“ The da}’ is cold,” he answered, walking with slow 
steps across the room where all things spoke to him of 
love and happiness, — that room So calm and peaceful 
where a deadly storm was gathering. 

“Did you go out to-day?’’ he asked, as though 
mechanically. 

He was impelled to ask the question by the last of a 
myriad of thoughts which had gathered themselves 
together into a lucid meditation, though jealousy was 
actively prompting them. 

“ No,” she answered, in a tone that was falsely 
candid. 

At that instant J ules saw through the open door of 
the dressing-room the velvet bonnet which his wife 
wore in the mornings ; on it were drops of rain. Jules 
was a passionate man, but he was also full of delicacy. 
It was repugnant to him to bring his wife face to face 
with a lie. When such a situation occurs, all has come 
to an end forever between certain beings. And yet 
those drops of rain were like a flash tearing through his 
brain. 

He left the room, went down to the porter’s lodge, 
and said to the porter, after making sure that they 
were alone : — 

“Fouguereau, a hundred crowns if you tell me the 
truth; dismissal if you deceive me; and nothing at all 
if you ever speak of my question and your answer.” 


Ferragus. 


91 


He stopped to examine the man’s face, leading him 
under the window. Then he continued : — 

Did madame go out this morning? ’’ 

“ Madame went out at a quarter to three, and I 
think I saw her come in about half an hour ago.” 

“ That is true, upon your honor? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“You will have the money ; but if you speak of this, 
remember, you will lose all.” 

Jules returned to his wife. 

“ Clemence,” he said, ‘‘I find I must put my ac- 
counts in order. Do not be offended at the inquiry I 
am going to make. Have I not given you forty thou- 
sand francs since the beginning of the year?” 

“ More,’^ she said, — ^^forty-seven.” 

“ Have you spent them? ” 

“ Nearly,” she replied. ‘‘In the first place, I had to 
pay several of our last 3’ear’s bills — ” 

“ I shall never find out anything in this way,’’ 
thought Jules. “ I am not taking the best course.” 

At this moment Jules’ own valet entered the room 
with a letter for his master, who opened it indifferentl}^, 
but as soon as his eyes had lighted on the signature he 
read it eagerly. The letter was as follows : — 

Monsieur, — For the sake of your peace of mind as well 
as ours, I take the course of writing you this letter without 
possessing the advantage of being known to you ; but my 


92 


Ferragus. 


position, my age, and the fear of some misfortune compel 
me to entreat you to show indulgence in the trying circum- 
stances under which our afflicted family is placed. Mon- 
sieur Auguste de Maulincour has for the last few days shown 
signs of mental derangement, and we fear that he may 
trouble your happiness by fancies which he confided to Mon- 
sieur le Vidame de Pamiers and myself during his first 
attack of frenzy. We think it right, therefore, to warn you 
of his malady, which is, we hope, curable ; but it will have 
such serious and important effects on the honor of our fam- 
ily and the career of my grandson that we must rely, mon- 
sieur, on your entire discretion. 

If Monsieur le Vidame or I could have gone to see you we 
would not have written. But I make no doubt that you 
will regard the prayer of a mother, who begs you to destroy 
this letter. 

Accept the assurance of my perfect consideration. 

Baronne de Maulincour, nee de Bieux. 

“ Oh ! what torture ! ” cried Jules. 

“What is it? what is in your mind?” asked bis 
wdfe, exhibiting the deepest anxiety. 

“ I have come,” he answered, slowl}’, as he threw her 
the letter, “ to ask myself whether it can be 3’ou who 
have sent me that to avert m3" suspicions. Judge, 
therefore, what I suffer.” 

“Unhappy man!” said Madame Jules, letting fall 
the paper. I pity him ; though he has done me great 
harm.” 

‘ ‘ Are 3"Ou aware that he has spoken to me ? ” ' 


Ferragus. 


93 


“Oh! have 3^011 been to see him, in spite of 3'OLU* 
promise ? ” she cried in terror. 

“ Clemence, our love is in danger of perishing; we 
stand outside of the ordinar}" rules of life ; let us 
la3* aside all pett3r considerations in presence of this 
great peril. Explain to me why 3’ou went out this 
morning. Women think they have the right to tell us 
little falsehoods. Sometimes they like to hide a pleas- 
ure the}' are preparing for us. Just now 3'ou said a 
word to me, b}' mistake no doubt, a no for a yes.” 

He went into the dressing-room and brought out the 
bonnet. 

“ See,’’ he said, “ your bonnet betrayed you ; these 
spots are raindrops. You must, therefore, have gone 
out in a street cab, and these drops fell upon it as 3’ou 
went to find one, or as 3'ou entered or left the house 
where you went. But a woman can leave her own 
home for man}' innocent purposes, even after she has 
told her husband that she did not mean to go out. 
There are so many reasons for changing our plans ! 
Caprices, whims, are they not your right? Women are 
not required to be consistent with themselves. You 
liad forgotten something, — a service to render, a visit, 
some kind action. But nothing hinders a woman from 
telling her husband what she does. Can we ever blush 
on the breast of a friend? It is not a jealous husband 
who speaks to you, my Clemence ; it is your lover. 


94 


Ferragus. 


your friend, your brother.” He flung himself passion- 
ately at her feet. “ Speak, not to justify yourself, but 
to calm my horrible sufferings. I know that 3*ou went 
out. Well — what did you do? where did you go? ” 

“ Yes, 1 went out, Jules,” she answered in a strained 
voice, though her face was calm. “ But ask me noth- 
ing more. Wait; have confidence ; without which you 
will lay up for yourself terrible remorse. Jules, my 
Jules, trust is the virtue of love. I own to you that I 
am at this moment too troubled to answer 3’ou : but I 
am not a false w’oman ; I love 3’ou, and 3’ou know it.” 

“ In the midst of all that can shake the faith of man 
and rouse his jealous3’, for I see I am not first in 3 our 
heart, I am no longer thine own self — well, Clemence, 
even so, I prefer to believe 3'ou, to believe that voice, to 
believe those eyes. If 3'Ou deceive me, 3*ou deserve — ” 

“ Ten thousand deaths ! ” she cried, interrupting him. 

“ I have never hidden a thought from 3'ou, but3'ou — ” 

“Hush!” she said, ^‘our happiness depends upon 
our mutual silence.” 

“ Ha! I will know all! ” he exclaimed, with sudden 
violence. 

At that moment the cries of a woman were heard, — 
the 3'elping of a shrill little voice came from the ante- 
chamber. 

“ I tell 3'Ou I will go in ! ” it cried. Yes, I shall 
go in ; I will see her ! I shall see her ! ” 


Ferragus. 


95 


Jules and Clemence both ran to the salon as the door 
from the antechamber was violently burst open. A 
3"oung woman entered hastil}", followed by two ser- 
vants, who said to their master : — 

“Monsieur, this person would come in in spite of 
us. We told her that madame was not at home. She 
answered that she knew very well madame had been 
out, but she saw her come in. She threatened to 
stay at the door of the house till she could speak to 
madame.’’ 

“ You can go,” said Monsieur Desmarets to the two 
men. What do you want, mademoiselle? ” he added, 
turning to the strange woman. 

This “demoiselle” was the t^^pe of a woman who is 
never to be met with except in Paris. She is made in 
Paris, like the mud, like the pavement, like the water 
of the Seine, such as it becomes in Paris before human 
industry filters it ten times ere it enters the cut- 
glass decanters and sparkles pure and bright from the 
filth it has been. She is therefore a being who is truly 
original. Depicted scores of times by the painter’s 
brush, the pencil of the caricaturist, the charcoal of the 
etcher, she still escapes analysis, because she cannot 
be caught and rendered in all her moods, like Nature, 
like this fantastic Paris itself. She liolds to vice by 
one thread only, and she breaks away from it at a 
thousand other points of the social circumference. Be- 


96 


Ferragus. 


sides, she lets only one trait of her character be known, 
and that the onl3^ one which renders her blamable ; 
her noble virtues are hidden ; she prefers to gloiy in 
her naive libertinism. Most incompletely rendered in 
dramas and tales where she is put upon the scene with 
all her poesy, she is nowhere really true but in her 
garret ; elsewhere she is invariably calumniated or 
over-praised. Rich, she deteriorates ; poor, she is mis- 
understood. She has too many vices, and too man}’ 
good qualities ; she is too near to pathetic asphyxiation 
or to a dissolute laugh ; too beautiful and too hideous. 
She personifies Paris, to which, in tlie long run, she 
supplies the toothless portresses, washerwomen, street- 
sweepers, beggars, occasional!}’ insolent countesses, 
admired actresses, applauded singers ; she has even 
given, in the olden time, two quasi-queens to the mon- 
archy. Who can grasp such a Proteus? She is all 
woman, less than woman, more than woman. From 
this vast portrait the painter of manners and morals 
can take but a feature here and there ; the ensemble is 
infinite. 

She was a grisette of Paris ; a grisette in all her 
glory ; a grisette in a hackney-coach, — happy, young, 
handsome, fresh, but a grisette ; a grisette with claws, 
scissors, impudent as a Spanish woman, snarling as a 
prudish English woman proclaiming her conjugal rights, 
coquettish as a great lady, though more frank, and 


Ferragus. 


97 


ready for everything ; a perfect lionne in her wa}’ ; 
issuing from the little apartment of which she had 
dreamed so often, with its red-calico curtains, its 
Utrecht velvet furniture, its tea-table, the cabinet of 
china with painted designs, the sofa, the little moquette 
carpet, the alabaster clock and candlesticks (under 
glass cases), the yellow bedroom, the eider-down quilt, 
— in short, all the domestic joys of a grisette’s life ; 
and in addition, the woman-of-all-work (a former 
grisette herself, now the owner of a moustache), 
theatre-parties, unlimited bonbons, silk dresses, bon- 
nets to spoil, — in fact, all the felicities coveted bj’ the 
grisette heart except a carriage, which onlj^ enters her 
imagination as a marshal’s baton into the dreams of a 
soldier. Yes, this grisette had all these things in return 
for a true affection, or in spite of a true affection, as 
some others obtain it for an hour a da}^ — a sort of tax 
carelessly paid under the claws of an old man. 

The 3’oung woman who now entered the presence of 
Monsieur and Madame Jules had a pair of feet so little 
covered hy her shoes that onh* a slim black line was 
visible between the carpet and her white stockings. 
This peculiar foot-gear, which Parisian caricaturists 
have well rendered, is a special attribute of the grisette 
of Paris ; but she is even more distinctive to the eyes 
of an observer by the care with which her garments are 
made to adhere to her form, which thej’ clearly define. 


98 


Ferragus, 


On this occasion she was trigly dressed in a green 
gown, with a white chemisette, which allowed the 
beauty of her bust to be seen ; her shawl, of Ternaux 
cashmere, had fallen from her shoulders, and was held 
b}^ its- two corners, which were twisted round her 
wrists. She had a delicate face, ros}^ cheeks, a white 
skin, sparkling gray eyes, a round, very prominent 
forehead, hair carefully smoothed beneath her little 
bonnet, and heavy curls upon her neck. 

“My name is Ida,” she began, “and if that’s Ma- 
dame Jules to whom I have the advantage of speaking, 
I ’ve come to tell her all I have in my heart against 
her. It is very wrong, when a woman is set up and in 
her furniture, as j'ou are here, to come and take from 
a poor girl a man with whom I ’m as good as married, 
morally, and who did talk of making it right by marr^’- 
ing me before the municipality. There ’s plenty of 
handsome 3"Oung men in the world — ain’t there, mon- 
sieur? — to take your fancy, without going after a man 
of middle age, who makes my happiness. Yah ! I 
have n’t got a fine h6tel like this, but I ’ve got my love, 
I have. I hate handsome men and mone}^ ; I ’m all 
heart, and — ” 

Madame Jules turned to her husband. 

“ You will allow me, monsieur, to hear no more of 
all this,” she said, retreating to her bedroom. 

“If the lad}" lives with you, I’ve made a mess of 


Ferragus. 


99 


it; but I can’t help that,” resumed Ida. “ Wh}’ does 
she come after Monsieur Ferragus every day ? ” 

‘‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” said Jules, stu- 
pefied ; “ my wife is incapable — ” 

“ Ha ! so you ’re married, you two,” said the grisette 
showing some surprise. “Then it’s very wrong, mon- 
sieur, — isn’t it? — for a woman who has the happi- 
ness of being married in legal marriage to have rela- 
tions with a man like Henri — ” 

“ Henri ! who is Henri?” said Jules, taking Ida by 
the arm and pulling her into an adjoining room that 
his wife might hear no more. 

“ Whj", Monsieur Ferragus.” 

“ But he is dead,” said Jules. 

“Nonsense; I went to Franconi’s with him last 
night, and he brought me home — as he ought. Be- 
sides, your wife can tell you about him ; did n’t she 
go there this very afternoon at three o’clock? I know 
she did, for I waited in the street, and saw her, — 
all because that good-natured fellow. Monsieur Justin, 
whom 3'ou know perhaps, — a little old man with jew- 
elr}^ who wears corsets, — told me that Madame Jules 
was my rival. That name, monsieur, sounds mighty 
like a feigned one ; but if it is yours, excuse me. But 
this I saj’, if Madame Jules was a court duchess, Henri 
is rich enough to satisfy all her fancies, and it is my 
business to protect my property ; I ’ve a right to, for 


100 


Ferragus. 


I love him, that I do. He is m3' first inclination ; m3' 
happiness and all m3' future fate depends on it. I fear 
nothing, monsieur ; I am honest ; I never lied, or stole 
the propert3' of an3' living soul, no matter who. If 
an empress was my rival, I ’d go straight to her, em- 
press as she was ; because all pretty women are equals, 
monsieur — ” 

“Enough! enough!’’ said Jules. “Where do 3'ou 
live ? ” 

“ Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, mon- 
sieur, — Ida Gruget, corset-maker, at your service, — 
for we make lots of corsets for men.” 

“ Where does the man whom 3'ou call Ferragus 
live?” 

“ Monsieur,” she said, pursing up her lips, “ in the 
first place, he ’s not a man ; he is a rich monsieur, 
much richer, perhaps, than you are. But wh3' do 3'ou 
ask me his address when 3'our wife knows it? He told 
me not to give it. Am I obliged to answer 3'ou? I ’m 
not, thank God, in a confessional or a police-court ; 
I’m responsible only to m3'self.” 

“ If I were to offer 3'ou ten thousand francs to tell 
me where Monsieur Ferragus lives, how then?” 

“ Ha! n, o, ?io, m3' little friend, and that ends the 
matter,” she said, emphasizing this singular reply with 
a popular gesture. “There’s no sum in the world 
could make me tell 3'ou. I have the honor to bid 3'ou 
good-da3'. How do I get out of here?” 


Ferragiis. 


101 


“ Jules, horror-struck, allowed her to go without 
further notice. The whole world seemed to crumble 
beneath his feet, and above him the heavens were 
falling with a crash. 

“ Monsieur is served,” said his valet. 

The valet and the footman waited in the dining-room 
a quarter of an hour without seeing master or mistress. 

“ Madame will not dine to-da}’,” said the waiting- 
maid, coming in. 

“ What ’s the matter, Josephine? ” asked the valet. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered. Madame is crying, 
and is going to bed. Monsieur has no doubt got some 
love-affair on hand, and it has been discovered at a 
very bad time. I would n’t answer for madame’s life. 
Men are so clumsy ; they ’ll make you scenes without 
any precaution.” 

“That’s not so,” said the valet, in a low voice. 

On the contrarj', madame is the one who — you under- 
stand? What time does monsieur have to go after 
pleasures, he, w^ho has n’t slept out of madame’s room 
for five years, who goes to his stud}' at ten and never 
leaves it till breakfast, at twelve. His life is all known, 
it is regular ; whereas madame goes out nearly every 
day at three o’clock. Heaven knows w'here.” 

“ And monsieur too,” said the maid, taking her mis- 
tress’s part. 

“ Yes, but he goes straight to the Bourse. I told 


102 


Ferragus. 


him three times that dinner was ready,” continued the 
valet, after a pause. “You might as well talk to a 
post.” 

Monsieur Jules entered the dining-room. 

“ Where is madame? ” he said. 

‘ ‘ Madame is going to bed ; her head aches,” replied 
the maid, assuming an air of importance. 

Monsieur Jules then said to the footmen com- 
posedly : “ You can take awa^^ ; I shall go and sit with 
madame.” 

He went to his wife’s room and found her weeping, 
but endeavoring to smother her sobs with her hand- 
kerchief. 

“ Why do 3’ou weep?” said Jules ; “ 3'ou need ex- 
pect no violence and no reproaches from me. Wh}" 
should I avenge m3’self ? If 3’ou have not been faithful 
to m3^ love, it is that 3^011 were never worth3" of it.” 

“Not worthy?” The words were repeated amid 
her sobs and the accent in which the3’ were said would 
have moved an3" other man than Jules. 

“To kill 3’ou, I must love more than perhaps I do 
love 3’ou,” he continued. But I should never have the 
courage ; I would rather kill myself, leaving you to 
your — happiness, and with — whom ! — ” 

He did not end his sentence. 

“Kill 3’ourself!” she cried, flinging herself at his 
feet and clasping them. 


Ferragus. 


103 


But he, wishing to escape the embrace, tried to shake 
her off, dragging her in so doing toward the bed. 

“ Let me alone,” he said. 

“No, no, Jules!” she cried. “If you love me no 
longer I shall die. Do you wish to know all ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He took her, grasped her violently, and sat down 
on the edge of the bed, holding her between his legs. 
Then, looking at that beautiful face now red as fire and 
furrowed with tears, — 

“ Speak,” he said. 

Her sobs began again. 

“No; it is a secret of life and death. If I tell it, 
I — No, I cannot. Have mercy, Jules 1 ” 

“You have betrayed me — ” 

“Ah! Jules, 3’ou think so now, but soon you will 
know all.” 

“ But this Ferragus, this convict whom 3’ou go to 
see, a man enriched by crime, if he does not belong to 
3’ou, if 3"Ou do not belong to him — ” 

“Oh, Jules!” 

“ Speak ! Is he 3^our mysterious benefactor? — the 
man to whom we owe our fortune, as persons have 
said alread3" ? ” 

“Who said that?” 

“ A man whom I killed in a duel.” 

“ Oh, God ! one death already ! ” 


104 


Ferragus. 


‘‘ If he is not your protector, if he does not give you 
money, if it is you, on the contrary’, who carry money 
to him, tell me, is he your brother?” 

“ What if he were? ” she said. 

Monsieur Desmarets crossed his arms. 

“Why should that have been concealed from me?” 
he said. “Then you and your mother have both de- 
ceived me? Besides, does a woman go to see her 
brother every day, or nearly every day?” 

His wife had fainted at his feet. 

‘‘ Dead,” he said. And suppose I am mistaken ? ” 

He sprang to the bell-rope ; called Josephine, and 
lifted Clemence to the bed. 

“ I shall die of this,” said Madame Jules, recovering 
consciousness. 

“Josephine,” cried Monsieur Desmarets. “Send for 
Monsieur Desplein ; send also to my brother and ask 
him to come here immediately.” 

“ Why your brother?” asked Clemence. 

But Jules had already left the room. 


Ferragus. 


105 


lY. 

WHERE GO TO DIE? 

For the first time in five years Madame Jules slept 
alone in her bed, and was compelled to admit a physi- 
cian into that sacred chamber. These in themselves 
were two keen pangs. Desplein found Madame Jules 
very ill. Never was a violent emotion more untimely. 
He would say nothing definite, and postponed till the 
morrow giving any opinion, after leaving a few direc- 
tions, which were not executed, the emotions of the 
heart causing all bodily cares to be forgotten. 

When morning dawned, Clemence had not 3'et slept. 
Her mind was absorbed in the low murmur of a conver- 
sation which lasted several hours between the brothers ; 
but the thickness of the walls allowed no word which 
could betray' the object of this long conference to reach 
her ears. Monsieur Desmarets, the notar\% went awa}" 
at last. The stillness of the night, and the singular 
activity of the senses given by powerful emotion, en- 
abled Clemence to distinguish the scratching of a pen 
and the involuntary movements of a person engaged in 
writing. Those who are habituall}’ up at night, and 
who observe the different acoustic effects produced in • 


106 


Ferragus. 


absolute silence, know that a slight echo can be readily 
perceived in the veiy places where louder but more 
equable and continued murmurs are not distinct. At 
four o’clock the sound ceased. Clemence rose, anxious 
and trembling. Then, with bare feet and without a 
wrapper, forgetting her illness and her moist condi- 
tion, the poor woman opened the door softl}’ without 
noise and looked into the next room. She saw her 
husband sitting, with a pen in his hand, asleep in his 
arm-chair. The candles had burned to the sockets. 
She slowl}^ advanced and read on an envelope, already 
sealed, the words, “This is m3’ will.^’ 

She knelt down as if before an open grave and kissed 
her husband’s hand. He woke instantly. 

“Jules, m3’ friend, the3’ grant some days to crimi- 
nals condemned to death,” she said, looking at him 
with e3’es that blazed with fever and with love. “Your 
innocent wife asks onl3’ two. Leave me free for two 
days, and — wait ! After that, I shall die happy — at 
least, 3’ou will regret me.” 

“ Clemence, I grant them.” 

Then, as she kissed her husband’s hands in the ten- 
der transport of her heart, Jules, under the spell of that 
cr3’ of innocence, took her in his arms and kissed her 
forehead, though ashamed to feel himself still under 
subjection to the power of that noble beauty. 

On the morrow, after taking a few hours’ rest, Jules 


Ferragus. 


107 


entered his wife’s room, obeying mechanically his in- 
variable custom of not leaving the house without a 
word to her. Clemence was sleeping. A ray of light 
passing through a chink in the upper blind of a window 
fell across the face of the dejected woman. Already 
suffering had impaired her forehead and the fresh red- 
ness of her lips. A lover’s eye could not fail to notice 
the appearance of dark blotches, and a sickly pallor in 
place of the uniform tone of the cheeks and the pure 
ivory whiteness of the skin, — two points at which the 
sentiments of her noble soul were artlesslj" wont to 
show themselves. 

“She suffers,” thought Jules. “Poor Clemence! 
May God protect us ! ” 

He kissed her very softly on the forehead. She 
woke, saw her husband, and remembered all. Unable 
to speak, she took his hand, her eyes filling with 
tears. 

“ I am innocent,” she said, ending her dream. 

“ You will not go out to-day, will you ? ” asked Jules. 

“ No, I feel too weak to leave my bed.” 

“ If you should change your mind, wait till I return,” 
said Jules. 

Then he went down to the porter’s lodge. 

“ Fouguereau, 3’ou will watch the door yourself to- 
day. I wish to know exactly who comes to the house, 
and who leaves it.” 


108 


Ferragus. 


Tljen he threw himself into a hackne}’- coach, and was 
driven to the h6tel de Maulincour, where he asked for 
the baron. 

“ Monsieur is ill/' they told him. 

Jules insisted on entering, and gave his name. If he 
could not see the barQn, he wished to see the vidame 
or the dowager. He waited some time in the salon, 
where Madame de Maulincour finally came to him and 
told him that her grandson was much too ill to receive 
him. 

“ I know, madame, the nature of his illness from the 
letter you did me the honor to write, and I beg you to 
believe — ” 

“ A letter to you, monsieur, written bj^ me ! ” cried 
the dowager, interrupting him. “ I have written you 
no letter. What was I made to say in that letter, 
monsieur? " 

“Madame,” replied Jules, “intending to see Mon- 
sieur de Maulincour to-day, I thought it best to pre- 
serve the letter in spite of its injunction to destroy it. 
There it is.” 

Madame de Maulincour put on her spectacles, and 
the moment she cast her eyes on the paper she showed 
the utmost surprise. 

“Monsieur,” she said, “my writing is so perfect^ 
imitated that, if the matter were not so recent, I might 
be deceived myself. My grandson is ill, it is true ; but 


Ferragus. 


109 


Iiis reiison lias never for a moment been aftected. We 
are the puppets of some evil-minded person or persons ; 
and yet I cannot imagine the object of a trick like this. 
You shall see my grandson, monsieur, and 3*011 will at 
once perceive that he is perfectl}' sound in mind.” 

She rang the bell, and sent to ask if the baron felt 
able to receive Monsieur Desmarets. The servant re- 
turned with an affirmative answer. Jules went to the 
baron’s room, where he found him in an arm-chair near 
the fire. Too feeble to move, the unfortunate man 
merelv" bowed his head with a raelanchol}* gesture. The 
Vidame de Pamiers was sitting with him. 

“ Monsieur le baron,” said Jules, “ I have something 
to sa3' which makes it desirable that I should see you 
alone.” 

‘‘ Monsieur,” replied Auguste, “ Monsieur le vidame 
knows about this affair ; you can speak fearlessl}' before 
him.” 

“ Monsieur le baron,” said Jules, in a grave voice, 
“ you have troubled and well-nigh destroyed m3* happi- 
ness without having any right to do so. Until the 
moment when we can see clearl3* which of us should 
demand, or grant, reparation to the other, you are 
bound to help me in following the dark and mysterious 
path into which 3*ou have flung me. I have now come 
to ascertain from you the present residence of the ex- 
traordinary being who exercises such a baneful effect 


110 


Ferragus. 


on your life and mine. On my return home yester- 
day, after listening to your avowals, I received that 
letter.” 

Jules gave him the forged letter. 

“This Ferragus, this Bourignard, or. this Monsieur 
de Funcal, is a demon ! ” cried Maulincour, after hav- 
ing read it. “Oh, what a frightful maze I put m3- foot 
into when I meddled in this matter ! AVhere am I 
going? I did wrong, monsieur,” he continued, looking 
at Jules ; “ but death is the greatest of all expiations, 
and m}^ death is now approaching. You can ask me 
whatever you like ; I am at your orders.” 

“Monsieur, 3'ou know, of course, where this man is 
living, and I must know it if it costs me all my fortune 
to penetrate this mystery. In presence of so cruel an 
enem3- ever}" moment is precious.” 

“Justin shall tell 3'ou all,” replied the baron. 

At these words the vidame fidgeted on his chair. 
Auguste rang the bell. 

“ Justin is not in the house ! ” cried the vidame, in a 
hasty manner that told much. 

“Well, then,” said Auguste, excitedl}', “the other 
servants must know where he is ; send a man on horse- 
back to fetch him. Your valet is in Paris, is n’t he ? 
He can be found.” 

The vidame was visibly distressed. 

“ Justin can’t come, my dear boy,” said the old man ; 


Ferragus, 111 

“he is dead. I wanted to conceal the accident from 
you, but — ” 

“ Dead ! ” cried Monsieur de Maulincour, — “ dead ! 
When and how ? 

“ Last night. He had been supping with some old 
friends, and, I dare say, was drunk; his friends — no 
doubt they were drunk, too — left him lying in the 
street, and a heavy vehicle ran over him.” 

“ The convict did not miss him; at the first stroke 
he killed,” said Auguste. “ He has had less luck 
with me ; it has taken four blows to put me out of the 
way.” 

Jules was gloomy and thoughtful. 

“Am I to know nothing, then?” he cried, after a 
long pause. “ Your valet seems to have been justly 
punished. Did he not exceed your orders in calumni- 
ating Madame Desmarets to a person named Ida, 
whose jealousy he roused in order to turn her vindic- 
tiveness upon us.” 

“ Ah, monsieur! in my anger I informed him about 
Madame Jules,” said Auguste. 

Monsieur!” cried the husband, keenly irritated. 

Oh, monsieur ! ” replied the baron, claiming silence 
by a gesture, “ I am prepared for all. You cannot tell 
me anything my own conscience has not already told 
me. I am now expecting the most celebrated of all 
professors of toxicology, in order to learn my fate. If 


112 


Ferragus. 


I am destined to intolerable suffering, my resolution is 
taken. I shall blow my brains out.’^ 

“ You talk like a child! cried the vidame, horrified 
by the coolness with which the baron said these words. 
“ Your grandmother would die of grief.” 

“ Then, monsieur,” said Jules, “ am I to understand 
that there exist no means of discovering in what part 
of Paris this extraordinaiy man resides?” 

“I think, monsieur,” said the old vidame, “from 
what I have heard poor Justin say, that Monsieur 
de Funcal lives at either the Portuguese or the Bra- 
zilian embass}’. Monsieur de Funcal is a nobleman be- 
longing to both those countries. As for the convict, he 
is dead and buried. Your persecutor, whoever he is, 
seems to me so powerful that it would be well to take 
no decisive measures until you are sure of some wa}’ of 
confounding and crushing him. Act prudently and 
with caution, m3* dear monsieur. Had Monsieur de 
Maulincour followed my advice, nothing of all this 
would have happened.” 

Jules coldh' but politel}* withdrew. He was now at 
a total loss to know how to reach Ferragus. As he 
passed into his own house, the porter told him that 
Madame had just been out to throw a letter into 
the post box at the head of the rue de Menars. 
Jules felt humiliated by this proof of the insight with 
which the porter espoused his cause, and the cleverness 


Ferragus. 


113 


by which he guessed the way to serve him. The eager- 
ness of servants, and their shrewdness in compromising 
masters who compromise themselves, was known to 
him, and he fully appreciated the danger of having 
them as accomplices, no matter for what purpose. But 
he could not think of his personal dignit}' until the 
moment when he found himself thus suddenly de- 
graded. What a triumph for the slave who could not 
raise himself to his master, to compel his master to 
come down to his level ! Jules was harsh and hard to 
him. Another fault. But he suffered so deepl}" ! His 
life till then so upright, so pure, was becoming crafty ; 
he was to scheme and lie. Clemence was- scheming 
and lying. This to him was a moment of horrible dis- 
gust. Lost in a flood of bitter feelings, Jules stood 
motionless at the door of his house. Yielding to de- 
spair, he thought of fleeing, of leaving France forever, 
carrying with him the illusions of uncertainty. Then, 
again, not doubting that the letter Clemence had just 
posted was addressed to Ferragus, his mind searched 
for a means of obtaining the answer that mj^sterious 
being was certain to send. Then his thoughts began 
to analyze the singular good fortune of his life since 
his marriage, and he asked himself whether the cal- 
umn}’ for which he had taken such signal vengeance was 
not a truth. Finall}", reverting to the coming answer, 
he said to himself : — 


8 


114 


Ferragus. 


“ But this man, so profoundl}’ capable, so logical in 
his ever}’ act, who sees and foresees, who calculates, 
and even divines, our very thoughts, is he likely to 
make an answer? Will he not employ some other 
means more in keeping with his power? He may send 
his answer by some beggar ; or in a carton brought 
by an honest man, who does not suspect what he 
brings ; or in some parcel of shoes, which a shop-girl 
may innocently deliver to my wife. If Clemence and 
he have agreed upon such means — 

He distrusted all things ; his mind ran over vast 
tracts and shoreless oceans of conjecture. Then, after 
floating for a time among a thousand contradictory 
ideas, he felt he was strongest in his own house, and 
he resolved to watch it as the ant-lion watches his 
sandy labyrinth. 

Fouguereau,’’ he said to the porter, “ I am not at 
home to any one who comes to see me. If any one 
calls to see madame, or brings her anything, ring 
twice. Bring all letters addressed here to me, no mat- 
ter for whom they are intended.” 

“Thus,” tliought he, as he entered his study, which 
was in the entresol, “I forestall the schemes of this 
Ferragus. If he sends some one to ask for me so as 
to find out if Clemence is alone, at least I shall not 
be tricked like a fool.” 

He stood by the window of his study, which looked 


Ferragus. 


115 


upon the street, and then a final scheme, inspired by 
jealousy, came into his mind. He resolved to send 
his head-clerk in his own carriage to the Bourse with 
a letter to another broker, explaining his sales and 
purchases and requesting him to do his business for 
that day. He postponed his more delicate transactions 
till the morrow, indifferent to the fall or rise of stocks 
or the debts of all Europe. High privilege of love ! — 
it crushes all things, all interests fall before it : altar, 
throne, consols ! 

At half-past three, just the hour at which the Bourse 
is in full blast of reports, monthly settlements, premi- 
ums, etc., Fouguereau entered the study, quite radiant 
with his news. 

“ Monsieur, an old woman has come, but very cau- 
tiously ; I think she ’s a sly one. She asked for mon- 
sieur, and seemed much annoyed when I told her he 
was out ; then she gave me a letter for madame, and 
here it is.” 

Fevered with anxiety, Jules opened the letter ; then 
he dropped into a chair exhausted. The letter was 
mere nonsense throughout, and needed a key. It was 
virtually in cipher. 

“ Go awa}", Fouguereau.” The porter left him. 

It is a mystery deeper than the sea below the 
plummet line ! Ah ! it must be love ; love only is so 
sagacious, so inventive as this. Ah ! I shall kill her.” 


116 


Ferragus. 


At this moment an idea flashed through his brain 
with such force that he felt almost physically illumin- 
ated by it. In the days of his toilsome poverty before 
his marriage, Jules had made for himself a true friend. 
The extreme delicacy with which he had managed the 
susceptibilities of a man both poor and modest ; the 
respect with which he had surrounded him ; the ingen- 
ious cleverness he had employed to nobly compel 
him to share his opulence without permitting it to 
make him blush, increased their friendship. Jacquet 
continued faithful to Desmarets in spite of his 
wealth. 

Jacquet, a nobl}’ upright man, a toiler, austere in 
his morals, had slowlj" made his wa}’ in that particu- 
lar ministry which develops both honesty and knaveiy 
at the same time. A clerk in the ministry of Foreign 
Affairs, he had charge of the most delicate division of 
its archives. Jacquet in that oflSce was like a glow- 
worm, casting his light upon those secret correspond- 
ences, deciphering and classifying despatches. Rank- 
ing higher than a mere bourgeois, his position at the 
ministry" was superior to that of the other subal- 
terns. He lived obscurely, glad to feel that such 
. obscurity sheltered him from reverses and disappoint- 
ments, and was satisfied to humbly' pay in the lowest 
coin his debt to the countiy. Thanks to Jules, his 
position had been much ameliorated by a worthy mar- 


Ferragus. 


117 


riage. An unrecognized patriot, a minister in actual 
fact, he contented himself with groaning in his chimney- 
corner at the course of the government. In his own 
home, Jacquet was an easy-going king, — an umbrella- 
man, as they say, who hired a carriage for his wife 
which he never entered himself. In short, to end this 
sketch of a philosopher unknown to himself, he had 
never suspected and never in all his life would suspect 
the advantages he might have drawn from his position, 
— that of having for his intimate friend a broker, and 
of knowing every morning all the secrets of the State. 
This man, sublime after the manner of that nameless 
soldier who died in saving Napoleon by a “ qui vive,” 
lived at the ministry. 

In ten minutes Jules was in his friend’s office. 
Jacquet gave him a chair, laid aside methodicall}’ his 
green silk eye-shade, rubbed his hands, picked up his 
snuff-box, rose, stretched himself till his shoulder-blades 
cracked, swelled out his chest, and said : — 

“What brings 3’ou here, Monsieur Desmarets? 
What do 3^ou want with me?” 

“Jacquet, I want 3’ou to decipher a secret, — a 
secret of life and death.” 

“It doesn’t concern politics?” 

“ If it did, I should n’t come to you for information,” 
said Jules. “ No, it is a famil}^ matter, about which I 
require you to be absolutely silent.” 


118 


Ferragus. 


“ Claude- Joseph Jacquet, dumb by profession. 
Don’t you know me by this time ? ” he said, laughing. 
‘^Discretion is m3" lot.” 

Jules showed him the letter. 

“ You must read me this letter, addressed to m3" 
wife.’^ 

“The deuce! the deuce! a bad business!” said 
Jacquet, examining the letter as a usurer examines a 
note to be negotiated. “ Ha ! that ’s a gridiron letter ! 
Wait a minute.” 

He left Jules alone for a moment, but returned im- 
mediatel3". 

“ Easy enough to read, my friend ! It is written on 
the gridiron plan, used b3" the Portuguese minister un- 
der Monsieur de Choiseul, at the time of the dismissal 
of the Jesuits. Here, see ! ” 

Jacquet placed upon the writing a piece of paper 
cut out in regular squares, like the paper laces which 
confectioners wrap round their sugarplums ; and Jules 
then read with perfect ease the words that were visible 
in the interstices. The3" were as follows : — 

“ Don’t be uneasy, my dear Cldmence ; our happiness can- 
not again be troubled; and your husband will soon lay 
aside his suspicions. However ill you may be, you must 
have the courage to come here to-morrow; find strength 
in your love for me. Mine for you has induced me to sub- 
mit to a cruel operation, and I cannot leave my bed. I have 
had the actual cautery applied to my back, and it was neces- 


Ferragus. 


119 


sary to burn it in a long time ; you understand me ? But 
I thought of you, and I did not suffer. 

“To baffle Maulincour (who will not persecute us much 
longer), I have left the protecting roof of the embassy, 
and am now safe from all inquiry in the rue des Enfants- 
Bouges, number 12, with an old woman, Madame ]6tienne 
Gruget, mother of that Ida, who shall pay dear for her 
folly. Come to-morrow, at nine in the morning. I am in 
a room which is reached only by an interior staircase. Ask 
for Monsieur Camuset. Adieu ; I kiss your forehead, my 
darling.” 

Jacquet looked at Jules with a sort of honest terror, 
the sign of a true compassion, as he made his favorite 
exclamation in two separate and distinct tones, — 

“ The deuce ! the deuce ! ” 

“That seems clear to you, doesn’t it?” said Jules. 
“ Well, in the depths of my heart there is a voice that 
pleads for my wife, and makes itself heard above the 
pangs of jealousy. I must endure the worst of all 
agony until to-morrow ; but to-morrow, between nine 
and ten I shall know all ; I shall be happy or wretched 
for all my life. Think of me then, Jacquet.” 

“I shall be at 3’our house to-morrow at eight o’clock. 
We will go together ; I ’ll wait for you, if 3’ou like, in 
the street. You may run some danger, and 3'ou ought 
to have near 3’ou some devoted person who’ll under- 
stand a mere sign, and whom 3*ou can safely trust. 
Count on me.” 


120 


Ferragus. 


“ Even to help me in killing some one?” 

“The deuce! the deuce!” said Jacquet, repeating, 
as it were, the same musical note. “ I have two 
children and a wife.” 

Jules pressed his friend’s hand and went away ; but 
returned immediately. 

“ I forgot the letter,” he said. “ But that ’s not all, 
I must reseal it.” 

“ The deuce ! the deuce ! yon opened it without sav- 
ing the seal ; however, it is still possible to restore it. 
Leave it with me and I’ll bring it to j’ou secundum 
scripturam.''* 

“At what time? 

“ Half-past five.” 

“ If I am not yet in, give it to the porter and tell 
him to send it up to madame.” 

“ Do 3'ou want me to-morrow?” 

“No. Adieu.” 

Jules drove at once to the place de la Rotonde du 
Temple, where he left his cabriolet and went on foot to 
the rue des Enfants-Rouges. He found the house of 
Madame fitienne Gruget and examined it. There, the 
mystery on which depended the fate of so many per- 
sons would be cleared up ; there, at this moment, was 
Ferragus, and to Ferragus all the threads of this 
strange plot led. The Gordian knot of the drama, 
already so bloody, was surely in a meeting between 


Ferragus. 


121 


Madame Jules, her husband, and that man ; and a 
blade able to cut the closest of such knots would not 
be wanting. 

The house was one of those which belong to the 
class called cahajoutis. This significant name is given 
by the populace of Paris to houses which are built, as 
it were, piecemeal. They are nearlj^ always composed 
of buildings originally separate but afterwards united 
according to the fancy of the various proprietors who 
successively enlarge them ; or else they are houses 
begun, left unfinished, again built upon, and com- 
pleted, — unfortunate structures which have passed, like 
certain peoples, under many dynasties of capricious 
masters. Neither the floors nor the windows have 
an ensemble^ — to borrow one of the most picturesque 
terms of the art of painting ; all is discord, even the 
external decoration. The cabajoutis is to Parisian 
architecture what the capharnaiim is to the apartment, 
— a poke-hole, where the most heterogeneous articles are 
flung pell-mell. 

“ Madame Etienne?” asked Jules of the portress. 

This portress had her lodge under the piain entrance, 
in a sort of chicken coop, or wooden house on rollers, 
not unlike those sentry-boxes which the police have 
lately set up by the stands of hackney-coaches. 

“ Hein? ” said the portress, without laying down the 
stocking she was knitting. 


122 


Ferragus. 


In Paris the various component parts which make up 
the physiognom}’ of any given portion of the monstrous 
cit}", are admirably in keeping with its general char- 
acter. Thus porter, concierge, or Suisse, whichever 
name ma}" be given to that essential muscle of the 
Parisian monster, is always in conformity with the 
neighborhood of which he is a part ; in fact, he is 
often an epitome of it. The lazy porter of the 
faubourg Saint-Germain, with lace on every seam of 
his coat, dabbles in stocks ; he of the Chaussee d’Antin 
takes his ease, reads the money-articles in the news- 
papers, and has a business of his own in the faubourg 
Montmartre. The portress in the quarter of prostitu- 
tion was formerly a prostitute ; in the Marais, she has 
morals, is cross-grained, and full of crotchets. 

On seeing Monsieur Jules this particular portress, 
holding her knitting in one hand, took a knife and 
stirred the half-extinguished peat in her foot-warmer ; 
then she said : — 

“You want Madame Etienne ; do you mean Madame 
Etienne Gruget? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jules, assuming a vexed air. 

“Who makes trimmings?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then, monsieur,” she said, issuing from her 
cage, and laying her hand on Jules’ arm and leading 
him to the end of a long passage-wa}’, vaulted like a 


Ferragus. 


123 


cellar, “ go up the second staircase at the end of the 
coiirt-3^ard — where j^ou see the windows with the pots 
of pinks ; that ’s where Madame Etienne lives.” 

“Thank you, madame. Do you think she is alone?” 

“ Wh}" should n’t she be alone? she ’s a widow.” 

Jules hastened up a dark stairwa}’, the steps of 
which were kuobb\r with hardened mud left b^^ the 
feet of those who came and went. On the second floor 
he saw three doors but no signs of pinks. Fortunately, 
on one of the doors, the oiliest and darkest of the three, 
he read these words, chalked on a panel : Ida will 
come to-night at nine o’clock.” 

“ This is the place,” thought Jules. 

He pulled an old bellrope, black with age, and heard 
the smothered sound of a cracked bell and the barking 
of an asthmatic little dog. the wa^' the sounds 
echoed from the interior he knew that the rooms were 
encumbered with articles which left no space for rever- 
beration, — a characteristic feature of the homes of 
workmen and humble households, where space and air 
are alwaj’S lacking. 

Jules looked about mechanicall}" for the pinks, and 
found them on the outer sill of a sash window between 
two filthy drain-pipes. So here were flowers ; here, a 
garden, two yards long and six inches wide; here, a 
wheat-ear ; here, a whole life epitomized ; but here, 
too, all the miseries of that life. A ray of light fall- 


124 


Ferragus. 


ing from heaven as if by special favor on those pun}' 
flowers and the vigorous wheat-ear brought out in full 
relief the dust, the grease, and that nameless color, 
peculiar to Parisian squalor, made of dirt, which 
crusted and spotted the damp walls, the worm-eaten 
balusters, the disjointed window-casings, and the door 
originally red. Presently the cough of an old woman, 
and a heavy female step, shuffling painfully in list slip- 
pers, announced the coming of the mother of Ida 
Gruget. The creature opened the door and came out 
upon the landing, looked up, and said : — 

“ Ah ! is this Monsieur Bocquillon? Why, no? But 
perhaps you ’re his brother. What can I do for you ? 
Come in, monsieur.” 

Jules followed her into the first room, where he saw, 
huddled together, cages, household utensils, ovens, fur- 
niture, little earthenware dishes full of food or water 
for the dog and the cats, a wooden clock, bed-quilts, 
engravings of Eisen, heaps of old iron, all these things 
mingled and massed together in a way that produced 
a most grotesque effect, — a true Parisian dusthole, 
in which were not lacking a few old numbers of the 
Constitutionel.” 

Jules, impelled by a sense of prudence, paid no at- 
tention to the widow’s invitation when she said civ- 
illy, showing him an inner room : — 

“ Come in here, monsieur, and warm yourself.” 


Ferragus. 


125 


Fearing to be overheard by Ferragus, Jules asked 
himself whether it were not wisest to conclude the 
arrangement he had come to make with the old woman 
in the crowded antechamber. A hen, which descended 
cackling from a loft, roused him from this inward med- 
itation. He came to a resolution, and followed Ida’s 
mother into the inner room, whither the^’ were accom- 
panied by the wheezy pug, a personage otherwise mute, 
who jumped upon a stool. Madame Gruget showed 
the assumption of semi-pauperism when she invited her 
visitor to warm himself. Her fire-pot contained, or 
rather concealed two bits of sticks, which lay apart : 
the grating was on the ground, its handle in the ashes. 
The mantel-shelf, adorned with a little wax Jesus 
under a shade of squares of glass held together with 
blue paper, was piled with wools, bobbins, and tools 
used in the making of gimps and trimmings. Jules 
examined everything in the room with a curiosity that 
was full of interest, and showed, in spite of himself, 
an inward satisfaction. 

“ Well, monsieur, tell me, do you want to bu}’ any 
of my things? ” said the old woman, seating herself in a 
cane arm-chair, which appeared to be her headquarters. 
In it she kept her handkerchief, snuffbox, knitting, 
half-peeled vegetables, spectacles, calendar, a bit of 
liver}^ gold lace just begun, a greasy pack of cards, 
and two volumes of novels, all stuck into the hollow 


126 


Ferragus. 


of the back. This article of furniture, in which the 
old creature was floating down the river of life, was 
not unlike the encj'clopedic bag which a woman carries 
with her when she travels ; in which may be found a 
compendium of her household belongings, from the por- 
trait of her husband to eau de Melisse for faintness, 
sugarplums for the children, and English court-plaster 
in case of cuts. 

Jules studied all. He looked attentively at Madame 
Gruget’s yellow visage, at her gray eyes without either 
brows or lashes, her toothless mouth, her wrinkles 
marked in black, her rusty cap, her still more rusty 
ruffles, her cotton petticoat full of holes, her worn-out 
slippers, her disabled fire-pot, her table heaped with 
dishes and silks and work begun or finished, in wool 
or cotton, in the midst of which stood a bottle of 
wine. Then he said to himself : “ This old woman has 
some passion, some strong liking or vice ; I can make 
her do my will.’’ 

“Madame,” he said aloud, with a private sign of 
intelligence, “ I have come to order some livery trim- 
mings.” Then he lowered his voice. “I know,” he 
continued, “ that 3^ou have a lodger who has taken the 
name of Camuset.” The old woman looked at him sud- 
denly, but without any sign of astonishment. ‘'Now, 
tell me, can we come to an understanding? This is 
a question which means fortune for you.” 


Ferragus. 


127 


“ Monsieur,” she replied, “ speak out, and don’t be 
afraid. There’s no one here. But if I had any one 
above, it would be impossible for him to hear you.” 

“ Ha ! the sly old creature, she answers like a Nor- 
man,” thought Jules, “We shall agree. Do not give 
yourself the trouble to tell falsehoods, madame,” he 
resumed, “ In the first place, let me tell you that I 
mean no harm either to you or to your lodger who 
is suffering from cautery, or to your daughter Ida, a 
stay-maker, the friend of Ferragus. You see, I know 
all your affairs. Do not be uneasy ; I am not a detec- 
tive policeman, nor do I desire anything that can hurt 
3’our conscience. A young lady will come here to- 
morrow-morning at half-past nine o’clock, to talk with 
this lover of 3'our daughter. I want to be where I can 
see all and hear all, without being seen or heard b^" 
them. If you will furnish me the means of doing so, 
I will reward that service with the gift of two thou- 
sand francs and a yearly stipend of six hundred. My 
notary shall prepare a deed before 3'ou this evening, 
and I will give him the money to hold ; he will pa3’ 
the two thousand to you to-morrow after the confer- 
ence at which I desire to be present, as you will then 
have given proofs of your good faith.” 

’“Will it injure m3’ daughter, my good monsieur?” 
she asked, casting a cat-like glance of doubt and unea- 
siness upon him. 


128 


Ferragus. 


“In no wa}’, madarae. But, in any case, it seems 
to me that your daughter does not treat you well. A 
girl who is loved by so rich a man as Ferragus ought 
to make 3’ou more comfortable than you seem to be.^’ 

“ Ah, my dear monsieur, just think, not so much as 
one poor ticket to the Ambigu, or the Gaiete, where 
she can go as much as she likes. It ’s shameful ! A 
girl for whom I sold my silver forks and spoons ! and 
now I eat, at my age, with German metal, — and all 
to pa}’ for her apprenticeship, and give her a trade, 
where she could coin money if she chose. As for 
that, she ’s like me, clever as a witch ; I must do her 
that justice. But, I will sa}', she might give me her 
old silk gowns, — I, who am so fond of wearing silk. 
But no ! Monsieur, she dines at the Cadran-Bleu at 
fifty francs a head, and rolls in her carriage as if she 
were a princess, and despises her mother for a Colin- 
Lampon. Heavens and earth ! what heedless 3’oung 
ones we ’ve brought into the world ; we have nothing 
to boast of there. A mother, monsieur, can’t be an}’- 
thing else but a good mother ; and I ’ve concealed that 
girl’s wa3’s, and kept her in m3’ bosom, to take the 
bread out of my mouth and cram ever3’thing into her 
own. Well, well! and now she comes and fondles one 
a little, and says, ‘ How d’3’e do, mother?’ And that’s 
all the duty she thinks of paying. But she ’ll have chil- 
dren one of these days, and then she ’ll find out what 


Ferragus. 129 

it is to have such baggage, — which one can’t help 
loving all the same.” 

“ Do you mean that she does nothing for 3’ou? ” 

“Ah, nothing? No, monsieur, I didn’t sdy that; 
if she did nothing, that would be a little too much. 
She gives me my rent and thirt3^-six francs a month. 
But, monsieur, at nw age, — and I ’m fifty -two years 
old, with eyes that feel the strain at night, — ought I 
to be working in this way? Besides, why won’t she 
have me to live with her? I should shame her, should 
T? Then let her sa3^ so. Faith, one ought to be 
buried out of the wa3^ of such dogs of children, who 
forget you before the3' ’ve even shut the door.” 

She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, and 
with it a lottery' ticket that dropped on the floor ; but 
she hastily' picked it up, saying, “Hi! that’s the 
receipt for my taxes.” 

Jules at once perceived the reason of the sagacious 
parsimony of which the mother complained ; and he 
was the more certain that the widow Gruget would 
agree to the proposed bargain. 

“ Well, then, madame,” he said, “ accept what I offer 

“ Did you say' two thousand francs in ready' moneys, 
and six hundred annuity', monsieur?” 

“Madame, I’ve changed my mind; I will promise 
you only’ three hundred annuity’. This way' seems 


9 


130 


Ferragus. 


more to m3’ own interests. But I will give 3’ou five 
thousand francs in ready money. Would n’t you like 
that as well ? ” 

“ Bless me, 3’es, monsieur! ” 

“You’ll get more comfort out of it ; and 3’ou can 
go to the Ambigu and Franconi’s at 3’our ease in a 
coach.” 

“As for Franconi, I don’t like that, for the}" don’t 
talk there. Monsieur, if I accept, it is because it will 
be veiy advantageous for m3" child. I shan’t be a drag 
on her any longer. Poor little thing ! I ’m glad she has 
her pleasures, after all. Ah, monsieur, youth must be 
amused ! And so, if you assure me that no harm will 
come to anybod}' — ” 

“ Not to anybod}',” repeated Jules. “ But now, how 
will you manage it? ” 

“ Well, monsieur, if I give Monsieur Ferragus a 
little tea made of popp3'-heads to-night, he ’ll sleep 
sound, the dear man ; and he needs it, too, because of 
his sufferings, for he does suffer, I can tell you, and 
more ’s the pit}'. But I ’d like to know wdiat a healthy 
man like him w'ants to burn his back for, just to get 
rid of a tic douleureux wdiich troubles him once in two 
years. However, to come back to our business. I 
have my neighbor’s key ; her lodging is just above 
mine, and in it there’s a room adjoining the one where 
Monsieur Ferragus is, with only a partition between 


Ftrragus. 


131 


them. My neighbor is away in the country for ten 
clays. Therefore, if 1 make a hole to-night while Mon- 
sieur Ferragus is sound asleep, you can see and hear 
them to-morrow at your ease. I’m on good terms 
with a locksmith, — a very friendly man, who talks like 
an angel, and he ’ll do the work for me and say nothing 
about it.” 

“ Then here ’s a hundred francs for him. Come to- 
night to Monsieur Desmaret’s office ; he ’s a notaiy, 
and here ’s his address. At nine o’clock the deed will 
be read}', but — silence ! ” 

“Enough, monsieur; as you say — silence! Au 
revoir, monsieur.” 

Jules went home, almost calmed by the certainty 
that he should know the truth on the morrow. As he 
entered the house, the porter gave him the letter 
properly resealed. 

“How do you feel now?” he said to his wife, in 
spite of the coldness that separated them. 

“Pretty well, Jules,’’ she answered in a coaxing 
voice, “do come and dine beside me.” 

“ Very good,” he said, giving her the letter. ^^Here 
is something Fouguereau gave me for you.” 

Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she 
saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh 
blow to her husband. 

“Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of 
expectation ? ” 


132 Ferragus. 

“Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the 
the seal. 

“ I leave 3’ou now for a few moments.” 

* He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, 
giving him directions about the payment to the widow 
Gruget. When he returned, he found his dinner served 
on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine 
ready to wait on him. 

“If I were up how I should like to serve you my- 
self,” said Clemence, when Josephine had left them. 
“Oh, 3’es, on my knees!” she added, passing her 
white hands through her husband’s hair. “ Dear, 
noble heart, 3’ou were very kind and gracious to me 
just now. You did me more good b}^ showing me 
such confidence than all the doctors on earth could do 
me with their prescriptions. That feminine delicac}’ of 
3*ours — for you do know how to love like a woman — 
well, it has shed a balm into my heart which has almost 
cured me. There ’s truce between us, Jules ; lower 
your head, that I ma3* kiss it.” 

Jules could not den3" himself the pleasure of that 
embrace. But it was not without a feeling of remorse 
in his heart ; he felt himself small before this woman 
whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort 
of melanchol3’ jo3’ possessed him. A tender hope shone 
on her features in spite of their grieved expression. 
The3^ both were equall3" unhapp3’ in deceiving each 


Ferragus. 


133 


other ; another caress, and, unable to resist their 
suffering, all would then have been avowed. 

“To-morrow evening, Clemence.” 

“ No, no ; to-morrow morning, by twelve o’clock, 
you will know all, and you ’ll kneel down before your 
wife — Oh, no ! you shall not be humiliated ; you are 
all forgiven now ; you have done no wrong. Listen, 
Jules; yesterday you did crush me — harshly; but 
perhaps my life would not have been complete with- 
out that agony ; it may be a shadow that will make 
our coming days celestial.” 

“You lay a spell upon me,’’ cried Jules; “you fill 
me wdth remorse.” 

“ Poor love ! destiny is stronger than we, and I am 
not the accomplice of mine. I shall go out to-morrow.” 

“ At what hour?” asked Jules. 

“ At half-past nine.” 

“ Clemence,” he said, “ take every precaution ; con- 
sult Doctor Desplein and old Haudry.” 

“ I shall consult nothing but my heart and my 
courage.” 

“I shall leave you free; 5’ou will not see me till 
twelve o’clock.” 

“ Won’t you keep me company this evening? I feel 
so much better.” 

After attending to some business, Jules returned to 
his wife, — recalled by her invincible attraction. His 
passion was stronger than his anguish. 


134 


Fcrragus. 


The next day, at nine o’clock Jules left home, hur- 
ried to the rue des Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and 
rang the bell of the widow Gruget’s lodgings. 

“ Ah ! 3’ou ’ve kept your word, as true as the dawn. 
Come in, monsieur,” said the old woman when she saw 
him. “I’ve made 3*011 a cup of coffee with cream,” 
she added, when the door was closed. “ Oh ! real 
cream ; I saw it milked myself at the daiiy we have 
in this veiy street.” 

“Thank 3*011, no, madame, nothing. Take me at 
once — ” 

“ Very good, monsieur. Follow me, tliis way.” 

Slie led him up into the room above her own, where 
she showed him, triumphantl3*, an opening about the 
size of a two-franc piece, made during the night, in a 
])lace, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe. In 
order to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain 
himself in a rather fatiguing attitude, by standing on a 
step-ladder which the widow had been careful to place 
there. 

“There'S a gentleman with him,” she whispered, as 
she retired. 

Jules then beheld a man employed in dressing a 
number of wounds on the shoulders of Ferragus, whose 
head he recognized from the description given to him 
b3* Monsieur de Maulincour. 

“ AVhen do you think those wounds will heal?” asked 
Ferragus. 


Ferragus. 


135 


“ I don’t know,” said the other man. “The doctors 
sa}' those wounds will require seven or eight more 
dressings.” 

“ Well, then, good-bye until to-night,” said Ferragus, 
holding out his liand to the man, who had just replaced 
the bandage. 

“Yes, to-night,” said the other, pressing his hand cor- 
dially. “ 1 wish I could see you past your sufferings.” 

“To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal’s papers will be 
delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead 
forever,” said Ferragus. “Those fatal marks which 
have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become 
once more a social being, a man among men, and more 
of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating. 
God knovvs it is not for my own sake I have made 
myself a Portuguese count!” 

“Poor Gratieii ! — you, the wisest of us all, our be- 
loved brother, the Benjamin of the baud ; as you very 
well know.” 

“ Adieu ; keep an e3'e on Maulincour.” 

“ You can rest easy on that score.” 

“ Ho ! staj', marquis,” cried the convict. 

“What is it?” 

“ Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last 
nio-ht. If she should throw herself into the river, I 
would not fish her out. She knows the secret of my 
name, and she’ll keep it better there. But still, look 
after her; for she is, in her way, a good girl.” 


136 


Ferragus. 


“ Very well.” 

The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules 
heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk 
gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps 
of his wife. 

Well, father,” said Clemence, “ m}- poor father, 
are you better? What courage you have shown!” 

“ Come here, my child,” replied Ferragus, holding 
out his hand to her. 

Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it. 

“ Now tell me, what is the matter, m3" little girl? 
What are these new troubles?” 

^‘Troubles, father! it concerns the life or death of 
the daughter you have loved so much. Indeed you 
must, as I wrote 3"ou yesterda3", you must find a way 
to see m3" poor Jules to-day. If 3"ou knew how good 
he has been to me, in spite of all suspicions appar- 
ently so legitimate. Father, m3" love is m3" very life. 
Would you see me die? Ah ! I have suffered so much 
that m3" life, I feel it! is in danger.” 

“ And all because of the curiosit3" of that miserable 
Parisian?” cried Ferragus. “I’d burn Paris down if 
I lost 3’ou, m3" daughter. Ha! 3"ou ma3" know what 
a lover is, but you don’t 3"et know what a father can 
do.” 

“ Father, 3"OU frighten me when you look at me in 
that way. Don’t weigh such different feelings in the 


Ferragus, 137 

same scales. I had a husband before I knew that my 
father was living — ” 

“ If your husband was the first to lay kisses on your 
forehead, I was the first to drop tears upon it,” replied 
Ferragus. But don’t feel anxious, Clemence, speak 
to me frankly. I love you enough to rejoice in the 
knowledge that you are happy, though I, your father, 
may have little place in your heart, while you fill the 
whole of mine.’’ 

“ Ah ! what good such words do me ! Ybu make 
me love you more and more, though I seem to rob 
something from my Jules. But, my kind father, think 
what his sufferings are. What may I tell him to-day ? ” 

“My child, do 3’ou think I waited for your letter to 
save you from this threatened danger ? Do you know 
what will become of those who venture to touch 3'our 
happiness, or come between us? Have you never been 
aware that a second providence was guarding j^our life? 
Twelve men of power and intellect form a phalanx 
round 3'Our love and 3"our existence, — ready to do all 
things to protect 3*ou. Think of 3’our father, who has 
risked death to meet you in the public promenades, 
or see 3'OU asleep in 3’our little bed in your mother’s 
home, during the night-time. Could such a father, to 
whom your innocent caresses gave strength to live 
when a man of honor ought to have died to escape his 
infamy’, could /, in short, I who breathe through your 


138 


Ferragus. 


lips, and see with 3'our e3’es, and feel with 3’onr heart, 
could I fail to defend with the claws of a lion and the 
soul of a father, m3’ onl3’ blessing, m3' life, m3' daughter? 
Since the death of that angel, 3'our mother, I have 
dreamed but of one thing, — the happiness of pressing 
you to my heart in the face of the whole earth, of bury- 
ing the convict, — ” He paused a moment, and then 
added : “ — of giving 3'ou a father, a father who could 
pi-ess without shame your husband’s hand, who could 
live without fear in both your hearts, who could sa3' to 
all the w'orld, ‘This is my daughter,’ — in short, to 
be a happ3' father.” 

“ Oh, father ! father ! ” 

“After infinite difficulty, after searching the wdiole 
globe,” continued Ferragus, “ m3' friends have found 
me the skin of a dead man in which to take my place 
once more in social life. A few days hence, I shall 
be Monsieur de Funcal, a Portuguese count. Ah ! my 
dear child, there are few men of my age who would 
have had the patience to learn Portuguese and P^nglish, 
which were spoken fluently by that devil of a sailor, 
who was drowned at sea.” 

“But, my dear father — ” 

“ All has been foreseen, and prepared. A few days 
hence, his Majesty John VI., King of Portugal will be 
my accomplice. My child, yon must have a little pa- 
tience where your father has had so much. But ah! 


Ferragus, 


139 


what would I not do to reward 3’our devotion for the 
last three years, — coming religiously^ to comfort your 
old father, at the risk of your own peace ! ” 

“Father!” cried Clemence, taking his hands and 
kissing them. 

“ Come, my child, have courage still ; keep my fatal 
secret a few days longer, till the end is reached. Jules 
is not an ordinary’ man, I know ; but are we sure that 
his lofty character and his noble love may not impel 
him to dislike the daughter of a — ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Climence, “you have read my heart; 
I have no other fear than tliat. The very thought 
turns me to ice,” she added, in a heart-rending tone. 
“ But, father, tliink that I have promised him the truth 
in two hours.” 

“ If so, my daughter, tell him to go to the Portu- 
guese embassy and see the Comte de Funcal, your 
father. I will be there.” 

“ But Monsieur de Maulincour has told him of Fer- 
]-agus. Oh, father, what torture, to deceive, deceive, 
deceive ! ” 

“Need you say’ that to rne? But only’ a few days 
more, and no living man will be able to expose me. 
Besides, Monsieur de Maulincour is beyond the faculty’ 
of remembering. Come, dry your tears, my silly child, 
and think — ” 

At this instant a terrible cry rang from the room in 
which Jules Desmarets was stationed. 


140 


Ferragus. 


The clamor was heard by Madame Jules and Ferra- 
gus through the opening of the wall, and struck them 
with terror. 

“ Go and see what it means, Clemence,” said her 
father. 

Clemence ran rapidly down the little staircase, found 
the door into Madame Gruget’s apartment wide open, 
heard the cries which echoed from the upper floor, 
went up the stairs, guided b}’ the noise of sobs, and 
caught these words before she entered the fatal 
chamber : — 

“ You, monsieur, you, with 3'our horrid inventions, — 
3"ou are the cause of her death ! ” 

“ Hush, miserable woman ! ” replied Jules, putting 
his handkerchief on the mouth of the old woman, who 
began at once to cry out, “ Murder ! help ! ” 

At this instant Clemence entered, saw her husband, 
uttered a cry, and fled away. 

“ Who will save my child?” cried the widow Gruget. 
“You have murdered her.” 

“How?” asked Jules, mechanicall}", for he was 
horror-struck at being seen b^^ his wife. 

“ Read that,” said the old woman, giving him a 
letter. Can mone}^ or annuities console me for 
that?” 

Farewell, mother! I bequeeth you what I have. I beg 
your pardon for my forlts, and the last greef to which I put 


Ferragus. 


141 


you by ending my life in the river. Henry, who I love 
more than myself, says I have made his misfortuns, and as 
he has drifen me away, and I have lost all my hops of mer- 
rying him, I am going to droun myself. I shall go abov 
Heuilly, so that they can’t- put me in the Morg. If Henry 
does not hate me anny more after I am ded, ask him to 
berry a pore girl whose hart beet for him only, and to forglf 
me, for I did rong to medle in what did n’t consern me. 
Tak care of his wounds. How much he sufered, pore fellow ! 
I shall have as much corage to kill myself as he had to burn 
his bak. Carry home the corsets I have finished. And pray 
God for your daughter. 

Ida. 

“ Take this letter to Monsieur de Funcal, who is 
upstairs,” said Jules. “ He alone can save your 
daughter, if there is still time.” 

So saying he disappeared, running like a man who 
has committed a crime. His legs trembled. The hot 
blood poured into his swelling heart in torrents greater 
than at any other moment of his life, and left it again 
with untold violence. Conflicting thoughts struggled 
in his mind, and yet one thought predominated, — 
he had not been loyal to the being he loved most. It 
was impossible for him to argue with his conscience, 
whose voice, rising high with conviction, came like an 
echo of those inward cries of his love during the cruel 
hours of doubt he had lately lived through. 

He spent the greater part of the da}" wandering 
about Paris, for he dared not go home. This man of 


142 


Ferragus. 


integi’it}' and honor feared to meet the spotless brow of 
the woman he had misjudged. We estimate wrong- 
doing. in proportion to the purity of our conscience ; 
the deed which is scarcely fault to some hearts, takes 
the proportions of a crime in certain unsullied souls. 
The slightest stain on the white garment of a virgin 
makes it a thing ignoble as the rags of a mendicant. 
Between the two the difference lies in the misfortune of 
the one, the wrong-doing of the other. God never 
measures repentance ; he never apportions it. As much 
is needed to efface a spot as to obliterate the crimes of 
a lifetime. These reflections fell with all their weight 
on Jules ; passions, like human laws, will not par- 
don, and their reasoning is more just; for are they not 
based upon a conscience of their own as infallible as 
an instinct? 

Jules Anally came home pale, despondent, crushed 
beneath a sense of his wrong-doing, and yet expressing 
in spite of himself the joy his wife’s innocence had 
given him. He entered her room all throbbing with 
emotion ; she was in bed with a high fever. He took 
her hand, kissed it, and covered it with tears. 

“ Dear angel,” he said, when they were alone, “ it is 
repentance.” 

“ And for what? ” she answered. 

As she made that reply, she laid her head back upon 
the pillow, closed her eyes, and remained motionless, 


Ferragus. 


143 


keeping the secret of her sufferings that she might not 
frighten her husband, — the tenderness of a mother, 
the delicacy of an angel ! All the woman was in her 
answer. 

The silence lasted long. Jules, thinking her asleep, 
went to question Josephine as to her mistress’s 
condition. 

“ Madame came home half-dead, monsieur. We 
sent at once for Monsieur Haudry.’’ 

“ Did he come? What did he say?’’ 

“He said nothing, monsieur. He did not seem 
satisfied ; gave orders that no one should go near 
madame except the nurse, and said he should come 
back this evening.” 

Jules returned softly to his wife’s room and sat 
down in a chair before the bed. There he remained, 
motionless, with his eyes fixed on those of Clemence. 
When she raised her eyelids she saw him, and through 
those lids passed a tender glance, full of passionate 
love, free from reproach and bitterness, — a look which 
fell like a flame of fire upon the heart of that husband, 
nobl}'' absolved and forever loved by the being whom 
he had killed. The presentiment of death struck both 
their minds with equal force. Their looks were blended 
in one anguish, as their hearts had long been blended 
in one love, felt equally by both, and shared equally. 
No questions were uttered ; a horrible certainty was 


144 


FerragiLS. 


there, — in the wife an absolute generosity ; in the hus- 
band an awful remorse ; then, in both souls the same 
vision of the end, the same conviction of fatalit}^ 

There came a moment when, thinking his wife 
asleep, Jules kissed her softl}^ on the forehead ; then 
after long contemplation of that cherished face, he 
said : — 

“ O God ! leave me this angel still a little while 
that I ma}’ blot out my wrong bj’ love and adoration. 
As a daughter, she is sublime ; as a wife, what word 
can express her?” 

Clemence raised her e^’es ; the3^ were full of tears. 

“ You pain me,” she said, in a feeble voice. 

It was getting late ; Doctor Haudr}’ came, and 
requested the husband to withdraw during his visit. 
When the doctor left the sick-room Jules asked him 
no question ; one gesture was enough. 

“Call in consultation any ph3sician in whom 3*ou • 
place confidence ; I ma^" be wrong.” 

“ Doctor, tell me the truth. I am a man, and I can 
bear it. Besides, I have the deepest interest in know- 
ing it ; I have certain affairs to settle.” 

“ Madame Jules is dying,” said the ph3*sician. 
“There is some moral malad3- which has made great 
progress, and it has complicated her physical condi- 
tion, which was alread3" dangerous, and made still 
more so by her great imprudence. To walk about 


Ferragics. 


145 


barefooted at night ! to go out when I forbade it ! 
on foot yestei*day in the rain, to-day in a carriage ! 
She must have meant to kill herself. But still, my 
judgment is not final ; she has youth, and a most 
amazing nervous strength. It ma}' be best to risk all 
to win all by employing some violent reagent. But I 
will not take upon myself to order it ; nor will I advise 
it ; in consultation I shall oppose it.” 

Jules returned to his wife. For eleven days and 
eleven nights he remained beside her bed, taking no 
sleep except during the day when he laid his head upon 
the foot of the bed. No man ever pushed the jeal- 
ousy of care and the craving for devotion to such an 
extreme as he. He could not endure that the slightest 
service should be done by others for his wife. There 
were days of uncertaint}", false hopes, now a little 
better, then a crisis, — in short, all the horrible muta- 
tions of death as it wavers, hesitates, and finally 
strikes. Madame Jules always found strength to smile 
at her husband. She pitied him, knowing that soon he 
would be alone. It was a double death, — that of life, 
that of love ; but life grew feebler and love grew 
mightier. One frightful night there was, when Cle- 
inence passed through that delirium which precedes 
the death of 3’outh. She talked of her happ}’ love, 
she talked of her father ; she related her mother’s 
revelations on her death-bed, and the obligations that 


10 


146 


Ferragus. 


mother had laid upon her. She struggled, not for life, 
but for her love which she could not leave. 

“ Grant, O God ! ” she said, “ that he ma}" not know 
I want him to die with me.'*’ 

Jules, unable to bear the scene, was at that moment 
in the adjoining room, and did not hear the pra3’er, 
which he would doubtless have fulfilled. 

When this crisis was over, Madame Jules recovered 
some strength. The next day she was beautiful and 
tranquil ; hope seemed to come to her ; she adorned 
herself, as the dying often do. Then she asked to 
be alone all da}", and sent away her husband with 
one of those entreaties made so earnestly that they 
are granted as we grant the prayer of a little child. 

Jules, indeed, had need of this day. He went to 
Monsieur de Maulincour to demand the satisfaction 
agreed upon between them. It was not without great 
difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the presence of 
the author of these misfortunes ; but the vidame, when 
he learned that the visit related to an affair of honor, 
obeyed the precepts of his whole life, and himself 
took Jules into the baron’s chamber. 

Monsieur Desmarets looked about him in search of 
his antagonist. 

“ Yes ! that is really he,” said the vidame, motion- 
ing to a man who was sitting in an arm-chair beside 
the fire. 


Ferragus. 147 

“ Who is it? Jules?” said the dying man in a broken 
voice. 

Auguste had lost the only faculty that makes us 
live — memory. Jules Desmarets recoiled with horror 
at this sight. He could not even recognize the elegant 
3 ^oung man in that thing without — as Bossuet said — 
a name in an}" language. It was, in truth, a corpse 
with whitened hair, its bones scarce covered with a 
wrinkled, blighted, withered skin, — a corpse with white 
eyes motionless, mouth hideously gaping, like those 
of idiots or vicious men killed by excesses. No trace 
of intelligence remained upon that brow, nor in any 
feature; nor was there in that flabby flesh either 'color 
or the faintest appearance of circulating blood. Here 
was a shrunken, withered creature brought to the state 
of those monsters we see preserved in museums, float- 
ing in alcohol. Jules fancied that he saw above that 
face the terrible head of Ferragus, and his own anger 
was silenced by such a vengeance. The husband found 
pity in his heart for the vacant wreck of what was once 
a man. 

“ The duel has taken place,” said the vidame. 

“ But he has killed many,” answered Jules, sorrow- 
fully. 

“ And many dear ones,” added the old man. “ His 
grandmother is dying ; and I shall follow her soon into 
the grave.” 


148 


Ferragus. 


On the morrow of this da3^ Madame Jules grew 
worse from hour to hour. She used a moment’s 
strength to take a letter from beneath her pillow, and 
gave it eagerly to her husband with a sign that was 
easy to understand, — she wished to give him, in a kiss, 
her last breath. He took it, and she died. Jules fell 
half-dead himself and was taken to his brother’s house. 
There, as he deplored in tears his absence of the day 
before, his brother told him that this separation was 
eagerl}^ desired b^" Clemence, who wished to spare him 
the sight of the religious paraphernalia, so terrible to 
tender imaginations, which the Church displa3's when 
conferring the last sacraments upon the dying. 

“ You could not have borne it,” said his brother. 
“ I could hardl3" bear the sight myself, and all the 
servants wept. Clemence was like a saint. She gath- 
ered strength to bid us all good-b3’e, and that voice, 
heard for the last time, rent our hearts. When she 
asked pardon for the pain she might unwillingl3’ have 
caused her servants, there were cries and sobs and — ” 

“ Enough, enough! ” said Jules. 

He wanted to be alone, that he might read the last 
words of the woman whom all had loved, and who had 
passed awa3^ like a flower. 

“ My beloved ; this is my last will. Why should we not 
make wills for the treasures of our hearts, as for our worldly 
property? Was not my love my property, my all? I mean 


Ferragus. 


149 


here to dispose of my love : it was the only fortune of your 
Clemence, and it is all that she can leave you in dying. 
Jules, you love me still, and I die happy. The doctors may 
explain my death as they think best; I alone know the 
true cause. I shall tell it to you, whatever pain it may 
cause you. I cannot carry with me, in a heart all yours, 
a secret which you do not share, although I die the victim 
of an enforced silence. 

“Jules, I was nurtured and brought up in the deepest 
solitude, far from the vices and the falsehoods of the world, 
by the loving woman whom you knew. Society did justice 
to her conventional charm, for that is what pleases society ; 
but I knew secretly her precious soul, I could cherish the 
mother who made my childhood a joy without bitterness, 
and I knew why I cherished her. Was not that to love 
doubly? Yes, I loved her, I feared her, I respected her; 
yet nothing oppressed my heart, neither fear nor respect. 
I was air in all to her; she was all in all to me. For nine- 
teen happy years, without a care, my soul, solitary amid the 
world which muttered round me, reflected only her pure 
image ; my heart beat for her and through her. I was 
scrupulously pious ; I found pleasure in being innocent be- 
fore God. My mother cultivated all noble and self-respect- 
ing sentiments in me. Ah! it gives me happiness to tell 
you, Jules, that I now know I was indeed a young girl, and 
that I came to you virgin in heart. 

“When I left that absolute solitude, when, for the first 
time, I braided my hair and crowned it with almond blos- 
soms, when I added, with delight, a few satin knots to my 
white dress, thinking of the world I was to see, and which 
I was curious to see — Jules, that innocent and modest 
coquetry was done for you 1 Yes, as I entered the world, I 


150 


Ferragus. 


saw you first of all. Your face, I remarked it; it stood out 
from the rest; your person pleased me; your voice, your 
manners, all inspired me with pleasant presentiments. 
When you came up, when you spoke to me, the color on 
your forehead, the tremble in your voice, — that moment 
gave me memories with which I throb as I now write to 
you, as I now, for the last time, think of them. Our love was 
at first the keenest of sympathies, but it was soon discovered 
by each of us and then, as speedily, shared ; just as, in after 
times, we have both equally felt and shared innumerable 
happinesses. From that moment my mother was only sec- 
ond in my heart. Next, I was yours, all yours. There is 
my life, and all my life, dear husband. 

“ And here is what remains for me to tell you. One even- 
ing, a few days before my mother’s death, she revealed to 
me the secret of her life, — not without burning tears. I 
have loved you better since the day I learned from the 
priest as he absolved my mother that there are passions con- 
demned by the world and .by the Church. But surely God 
will not be severe when they are the sins of souls as ten- 
der as that of my mother; only, that dear woman could 
never bring herself to repent. She loved much, Jules ; she 
was all love. So I have prayed daily for her, but never 
judged her. 

“ That night I learned the cause of her deep maternal ten- 
derness ; then I also learned that there was in Paris a man 
whose life and whose love centred on me ; that your fortune 
was his doing, and that he loved you. I learned also that 
he was exiled from society and bore a tarnished name ; but 
that he was more unhappy for me, for us, than for himself. 
My mother was all his comfort ; she was dying, and I prom- 
ised to take her place. With all the ardor of a soul whose 


Ferragus. 


151 


feelings had never been perverted, I saw only the happiness 
of softening the bitterness of my mother’s last moments, 
and I pledged myself to continue'^her work of secret charity, 
— the charity of the heart. The first time that I saw my 
father was beside the bed where my mother had just ex- 
pired. When he raised his tearful eyes, it was to see in 
me a revival of his dead hopes. I had sworn, not to tell 
a lie, but to keep silence; and that silence what woman 
could have broken it? 

“ There is my fault, J ules, — a fault which I expiate by 
death. I doubted you. But fear is so natural to a woman ; 
above all, a woman who knows what it is that she may lose. I 
trembled for our love. My father’s secret seemed to me the 
death of my happiness ; and the more I loved, the more 1 
feared. I dared hot avow this feeling to my father ; it 
would have wounded him, and in his situation a wound was 
agony. But, without a word from me, he shared my fears. 
That fatherly heart trembled for my happiness as much as I 
trembled for myself; but it dared not speak, obeying the 
same delicacy that kept me mute. Yes, Jules, I believed 
that you could not love the daughter of Gratien Bourignard 
as you loved your Clemence. Without that terror could I 
have kept back anything from you, — you who live in every 
fold of my heart? 

“ The day when that odious, unfortunate young officer 
spoke to you, I was forced to lie. That day, for the second 
time in my life, I knew what pain was ; that pain has 
steadily increased until this moment, when I speak with 
you for the last time. What matters now my ' father’s 
position ? You know all. I could, by the help of my love, 
have conquered my illness and borne its sufferings; but 
I cannot stifle the voice of doubt. Is it not probable 


152 


Ferragus. 


that my origin would affect the purity of your love and 
weaken it, diminish it ? That fear nothing has been able 
to quench in me. There, Jules, is the cause of my death. 
I cannot live fearing a word, a look, — a word you may 
never say, a look you may never give ; but, I cannot help it, 
I fear them. I die beloved ; there is my consolation. 

“ I have known, for the last three years, that my father 
and his friends have well-nigh moved the world to deceive 
the world. That I might have a station in life, they have 
bought a dead man, a reputation, a fortune, so that a living 
man might live again, restored ; and all this for you, for us. 
We were never to have known of it. Well, my death will 
save my father from that falsehood, for he will not sur- 
vive me. 

“ Farewell, Jules; my heart is all here. To show you my 
love in its agony of fear, is not that bequeathing my whole 
soul to you ? I could never have the strength to si^eak to 
you ; I have only enough to write. I have just confessed to 
God the sins of my life. I have promised to fill my mind 
with the King of Heaven only ; but I must confess myself 
to him who is, for me, the whole of earth. Alas ! shall I not 
be pardoned for this last sigh between the life that was and 
the life that shall be? Farewell, my Jules, my loved 
one ! I go to God, with whom is Love without a cloud, to 
whpm you will follow me. There, before his throne, united 
forever, we may love each other throughout the ages. This 
hope alone can comfort me. If I am worthy of being there 
at once, I will follow you through life. My soul shall bear 
you company; it will wrap you about, for you must stay 
here still, — ah! here below. Lead a holy life that you may 
the more surely come to me. You can do such good upon 
this earth! Is it not an angel’s mission for the suffering 


Ferragus. ■ 


153 


soul to shed happiness about him, — to give to others that 
which he has not ? I bequeath you to the Unhappy. Their 
smiles, their tears, are the only ones of which 1 cannot be 
jealous. We shall find a charm in sweet beneficence. Can 
we not live together still if you would join my name — your 
Clemence — in these good works ? 

“ After loving as we have loved, there is naught but God, 
Jules. God does not lie; God never betrays. Adore him 
only, I charge you ! Lead those who suffer up to him ; com- 
fort the sorrowing members of his Church. Farewell, dear 
soul that I have filled ! 1 know you ; you will never love 

again. I may die happy in the thought that makes all 
women happy. Yes, my grave will be your heart. After this 
childhood I have just related, has not my life flowed on 
within that heart? Dead, you will never drive me forth. 
I am proud of that rare life ! You will know me only in 
the flower of my youth ; I leave you regrets without disillu- 
sions. Jules, it is a happy death. 

“ You, who have so fully understood me, may I ask one 
thing more of you, — superfluous request, perhaps, the ful- 
filment of a woman’s fancy, the prayer of a jealousy we all 
must feel, — I pray you to burn all that especially belonged 
to MS, destroy our chamber, annihilate all that is a memory 
of our happiness. 

“ Once more, farewell, — the last farewell ! It is all 
love, and so will be my parting thought, my parting 
breath.” 

When Jules had read that letter there came into his 
heart one of those wild frenzies of which it is impos- 
sible to describe the awful anguish. All sorrows are 
individual ; their effects are not subjected to any fixed 


154 


Ferragus. 


rule. Certain men will stop their ears to hear nothing ; 
some women close their e3^es hoping never to see again ; 
great and splendid souls are met with who fling them- 
selves into sorrow as into an abj’ss. In the matter of 
despair, all is true. 


Ferragus, 


155 


V. 

CONCLUSION. 

Jules escaped from his brother’s house and returned 
home, wishing to pass the night beside his wife, and 
see till the last moment that celestial creature. As he 
walked along with an indilference to life known only 
to those who have reached the last degree of wretched- 
ness, he thought of how, in India, the law ordained 
that widows should die ; he longed to die. He was 
not yet crushed ; the fever of his grief was still upon 
him. He reached his home and went up into the 
sacred chamber ; he saw his Clemence on the bed 
of death, beautiful, like a saint, her hair smoothly 
laid upon her forehead, her hands joined, her body 
wrapped alread}" in its shroud. Tapers were lighted, a 
priest was praying, Josephine kneeling in a corner, wept, 
and, near the bed, were two men. One was Ferragus. 
He stood erect, motionless, gazing at his daughter 
with dry e3’es ; his head 3’ou might have taken for 
bronze: he did see Jules. 

The other man was Jacquet, — Jacquet, to whom 
Madame Jules had been ever kind. Jacquet felt for 
her one of those respectful friendships which rejoice 


156 


Ferragus. 


.the untroubled heart ; a gentle passion ; love without 
its desires and its storms. He had come to pay his 
debt of tears, to bid a long adieu to the wife of his 
friend, to kiss, for the first time, the ic^’ brow of the 
woman he had tacitly made his sister. 

All was silence. Here death was neither terrible as 
in the churches, nor pompous as it makes its way along 
the streets ; no, it was death in the home, a tender 
death ; here were pomps of the heart, tears drawn 
from the e^’es of all. Jules sat down beside Jacquet 
and pressed his hand ; then, without uttering a word, 
all these persons remained as they were till morning. 

When da3dight paled the tapers, Jacquet, foreseeing 
the painful scenes which would then take place, drew 
Jules awa}* into another room. At this moment the 
husband looked at the father, and Ferragus looked at 
Jules. The two sorrows arraigned each other, meas- 
ured each other, and comprehended each other in that 
look. A flash of fuiy shone for an instant in the eyes 
of Ferragus. 

“ You killed her,” thought he. 

“ Why was I distrusted?” seemed the answer of the 
husband. 

The scene was one that might have passed between 
two tigers recognizing the futilit}" of a struggle and, 
after a moment’s hesitation, turning awa}’, without 


even a roar. 


Ferragus. 157 

“ Jacquet,” said Jules, ‘‘have 3 ’ou attended to everj'- 
thing? ’’ 

“Yes, to eveiything,” replikl his friend, “but a 
man had forestalled me who had ordered and paid 
for all.’^ 

“He tears his daughter from me!’’ cried the hus- 
band, with the violence of despair. 

Jules rushed back to his wife’s room ; but the father 
was there no longer. Clemence had now been placed 
in a leaden coffin, and workmen were employed in 
soldering the cover. Jules returned, horrified by the 
sight ; the sound of the hammers the men were using 
made him mechanically burst into tears. 

“ Jacquet,” he said, “ out of this dreadful night one 
idea has come to me, onl}" one, but one I must make a 
realit}" at any price. I cannot let Clemence sta}" in 
any cemetery in Paris. I wish to burn her, — to gather 
her ashes and keep her with me. Sa\' nothing of this, 
but manage on mj' behalf to have it done. I am going 
to her chamber, where 1 shall stay until the time has 
come to go. You alone may come in there to tell me 
what you have done. Go, and spare nothing.” 

During the morning, Madame Jules, after lying in a 
mortuary chapel at the door of her house, was taken to 
Saint-Koch. The church was hung with black through- 
out. The sort of luxnr}" thus displa 3 ’ed had drawn a 
crowd ; for in Paris all things are sights, even true 


158 


Ferragus. 


grief. There are persons who stand at their windows 
to see how a son deplores a mother as he follows her 
body ; there are others who hire commodious seats to 
see how a head is made to fall. No people in the 
world have such insatiate eyes as the Parisians. On 
this occasion, inquisitive minds were particularly sur- 
prised to see the six lateral chapels at Saint-Roch also 
hung in black. Two men in mourning were listening 
to a mortuary mass said in each chapel. In the chan- 
cel no other persons but Monsieur Desmarets, the 
notary, and Jacquet were present ; the servants of 
the household were outside the screen. To church 
loungers there was something inexplicable in so much 
pomp and so few mourners. But Jules had been de- 
termined that no indifferent person should be present 
at the ceremony. 

High mass was celebrated with the sombre magnifi- 
cence of funeral services. Beside the ministers in ordi- 
nary of Saint-Roch, thirteen priests from other parishes 
were present. Perhaps never did the Dies irm pro- 
duce upon Christians, assembled by chance, by curi- 
osity, and thirsting for emotions, an effect so profound, 
so nervously glacial as that now caused by this hymn 
when the eight voices of the precentors, accompanied 
by the voices of the priests and the choir-boys, intoned 
it alternatel3^ From the six lateral chapels twelve 
other childish voices rose shrilly in grief, mingling 


Fermgus. 


159 


with the choir voices lamentably. From all parts 
of the church this mourning issued ; cries of an- 
guish responded to the cries of fear. That terrible 
music was the voice of sorrows hidden from the world, 
of secret friendships weeping for the dead. Never, 
in any human religion, have the terrors of the soul, 
violently torn from the bod}’’ and stormily shaken in 
presence of the fulminating majesty of God, been 
rendered with such force. Before that clamor of 
clamors all artists and their most passionate compo- 
sitions must bow humiliated. No, nothing can stand 
beside that hj^mn, which sums all human passions, 
gives them a galvanic life beyond the coffin, and leaves 
them, palpitating still, before the living and avenging 
God. These cries of childhood, mingling with the 
tones of older voices, including thus in the Song of 
Death all human life and its developments, recalling 
the sufferings of the cradle, swelling to the griefs of 
other ages in the stronger male voices and the quaver- 
ing of the priests, — all this strident harmony, big with 
lightning and thunderbolts, does it not speak with equal 
force to the daring imagination, the coldest heart, nay, 
to philosophers themselves? As we hear it, we think 
God speaks ; the vaulted arches of no church are mere 
material ; they have a voice, they tremble, they scatter 
fear by the might of their echoes. We think we see 
unnumbered dead arising and holding out their hands. 


160 


Ferragus. 


It is no more a father, a wife, a child, — humanity it- 
self is rising from its dust. 

It is impossible to judge of the catholic, apostolic, 
and Roman faith, unless the soul has known that deep- 
est grief of mourning for a loved one Ij ing beneath 
the pall ; unless it has felt the emotions that fill the 
heart, uttered by that Hymn of Despair, b}^ those cries 
that crush the mind, b}" that sacred fear augmenting 
strophe by strophe, ascending heavenward, which ter- 
rifies, belittles, and elevates the soul, and leaves with- 
in our minds, as the last sound ceases, a consciousness 
of immortality. We have met and struggled with the 
vast idea of the Infinite. After that, all is silent in the 
church. No word is said ; sceptics themselves k^iow 
not what they are feeling. Spanish genius alone was 
able to bring this untold majesty to untold griefs. 

When the solemn ceremony was over, twelve men 
came from the six chapels and stood around the cof- 
fin to hear the song of hope which the Church intones 
for the Christian soul before the human form is bur- 
ied. Then, each man entered alone a mourning-coach ; 
Jacquet and Monsieur Desmarets took the thirteenth ; 
the servants followed on foot. An hour later, they 
were at the summit of that cemetery popularly called 
Pere-Lachaise. The unknown twelve men stood in a 
circle round the grave, where the coffin had been laid in 
presence of a crowd of loiterers gathered from all parts 


FerragiLS. 


161 


of this public garden. After a few short prayers the 
priest threw a handful of earth on the remains of this 
woman, and the grave-diggers, having asked for their 
fee, made haste to fill the grave in order to dig another. 

Here this history seems to end ; but perhaps it 
would be incomplete if, after giving a rapid sketch of 
Parisian life, and following certain of its capricious 
undulations, the effects of death were omitted. Death 
in Paris is unlike death in any other capital; few per- 
sons know the trials of true grief in its struggle with 
civilization, and the government of Paris. Perhaps, 
also, Monsieur Jules and Ferragns XXIIL may have 
proved sufScienth^ interesting to make a few words on 
their after life not entirely out of place. Besides, 
some persons like to be told all, and wish, as one of 
our cleverest critics has remarked, to know by what 
chemical process oil was made to burn in Aladdin’s 
lamp. 

Jacqnet, being a government employe, naturally ap- 
plied to the authorities for permission to exhume the 
bod}^ of Madame Jules and burn it. He went to see 
the prefect of police, under whose protection the dead 
sleep. That functionaiy demanded a petition. The 
blank was bought that giv^es to sorrow its proper ad- 
ministrative form ; it was necessary to employ the 
bureaucratic jargon to express the wishes of a man so 
crushed that words, perhaps, were lacking to him, and 

11 


162 


Ferragus. 


it was also necessary to coldly and briefl}- repeat on 
the margin the nature of the request, which was done 
in these words: “The petitioner respectfully asks 
for the incineration of his wife.” 

When the official charged with making the report to 
the Councillor of State and prefect of police read that 
marginal note, explaining the object of the petition, 
and couched, as requested, in the plainest terms, he 
said : — 

“This is a serious matter! my report cannot be 
ready under eight days.” 

Jules, to whom Jacquet was obliged ,to speak of this 
delaj’, comprehended the words that Ferragus had said 
in his hearing, “I’ll burn Paris!” Nothing seemed 
to him now more natural than to annihilate that re- 
ceptacle of monstrous things. 

“ But,” he said to Jacquet, ‘^you must go to the min- 
ister of the Interior, and get your minister to speak 
to him.” 

Jacquet went to the minister of the Interior, and 
asked an audience ; it was granted, but the time ap- 
pointed was two weeks later. Jacquet was a persistent 
man. He travelled from bureau to bureau, and finally 
reached the private secretary of the minister of the 
Interior, to whom he had made the private secretary 
of his own minister say a word. These high protec- 
tors aiding, he obtained for the morrow a second inter- 


Ferragus. 


163 


view, in which, being armed with a line from the 
autocrat of Foreign affairs to the pacha of the Inte- 
rior, Jacquet hoped to carry the matter by assault. He 
was ready with reasons, and answers to peremptory 
questions, — in short, he was armed at all points ; but 
he failed. 

“This matter does not concern me,” said the min- 
ister; “it belongs to the prefect of police. Besides, 
there is no law giving a husband any legal right to the 
body of his wife, nor to fathers those of their children. 
The matter is serious. There are questions of public 
utility involved which will have to be examined. The 
interests of the city of Paris might suffer. Therefore 
if the matter depended on me, which it does not, I could 
not decide hie et nunc; I should require a report.” 

A report is to the present system of administration 
what limbo or hades is to Christianit}’. Jacquet knew 
very well the mania for “ reports ; ” he had not waited 
until this occasion to groan at that bureaucratic ab- 
surdity. He knew that since the invasion into public 
business of the Report (an administrative revolution 
consummated in 1804) there was never known a single 
minister who would take upon himself to have an opin- 
ion or to decide the slightest matter, unless that opinion 
or matter had been winnowed, sifted and plucked to 
bits by the paper-spoilers, quill-drivers, and splendid 
intellects of his particular bureau. Jacquet — he was 


164 


Ferragus. 


one of those men who are worthy of Plutarch as biog- 
rapher — saw that he had made a mistake in his man- 
agement of the affair, and had, in fact, rendered it 
impossible b}’ trying to proceed legally. The thing 
he should have done was to have taken Madame Jules 
to one of Desmaret’s estates in the country ; and there, 
under the good-natured authorit}^ of some village mayor 
to have gratified the sorrowful longing of his friend. 
Law, constitutional and administrative, begets nothing ; 
it is a barren monster for peoples, for kings, and for 
private interests. But the peoples decipher no princi- 
ples but those that are writ in blood, and the evils of 
legality will always be pacific ; it flattens a nation 
down, that is all. Jacquet, a man of modern libert}", 
returned home reflecting on the benefits of arbitrary 
power. ' 

When he went with his report to Jules, he found it 
necessar}' to deceive him, for the unhappy man w^as in 
a high fever, unable to leave his bed. The minister of 
the Interior mentioned, at a ministerial dinner that 
same evening, the singular fancy of a Parisian in wish- 
ing to burn his wife after the manner of the Romans. 
The clubs of Paris took up the subject, and talked for 
a while of the burials of antiquity. Ancient things 
were just then becoming a fashion, and some persons 
declared that it would be a fine thing to re-establish, for 
distinguished persons, the funeral pyre. This opinion 


Ferragus. 165 

had its defenders and its detractors. Some said that 
there were too many such personages, and the price of 
wood would be enormously increased by such a custom ; 
moreover, it would be absurd to see our ancestors in 
their urns in the procession at Longchamps. And if 
the urns were valuable, they were likely some da}' to 
be sold at auction, full of respectable ashes, or seized 
by creditors, — a race of men who respected nothing. 
The other side made answer that our ancestors were 
much safer in urns than at Pere-Lachaise, for before 
very long the city of Paris would be compelled to order 
a Saint-Bartholomew against its dead, who were invad- 
ing the neighboring country, and threatening to invade 
the territory of Brie. It was, in short, one of those 
futile but witty discussions which sometimes cause 
deep and painful wounds. Happily for Jules, he knew 
nothing of the conversations, the witty speeches, and 
arguments which his sorrow had furnished to the 
tongues of Paris. 

The prefect of police was indignant that Monsieur 
Jacquet had appealed to a minister to avoid the wise 
delays of the commissioners of the public highways ; 
for the exhumation of Madame Jules was a question 
belonging to that department. The police bureau was 
doing its best to reply promptly to the petition ; one 
appeal was quite sufficient to set the office in motion, 
and once in motion matters would go far. But as for 


166 


Ferragus. 


the administration, that might take the case before the 
Council of state, — a machine very difficult indeed to 
move. 

After the second day Jacquet was obliged to tell his 
friend that he must renounce his desire, because, in a 
city where the number of tears shed on black draperies 
is tariffed, where the laws recognize seven classes of 
funerals, where the scrap of ground to hold the dead 
is sold at its weight in silver, where grief is worked for 
what it is worth, where the pra^’ers of the Church are 
costly, and the vestry claim payment for extra voices 
in the Dies irce^ — all attempt to get out of the rut 
prescribed by the authorities for sorrow is useless and 
impossible. 

“ It would have been to me,” said Jules, “ a com- 
fort in my misery. I meant to have died away from 
here, and I hoped to hold her in my arms in a distant 
grave. I did not know that bureaucracy could send its 
claws into our ver}^ coffins.” 

He now wished to see if room had been left for him 
beside his wife. The two friends went to the cemetery. 
When they reached it they found (as at the doors of 
museums, galleries, and coach-offices) ciceroni^ who 
proposed to guide them through the labjTinth of Pere- 
Lachaise. Neither Jules nor Jacquet could have found 
the spot where Clemence lay. Ah, frightful anguish ! 
They went to the lodge to consult the porter of the 


Ferragus. 


167 


cemetery. The dead have a porter, and there are 
hours when the dead are “ not receiving.’^ It is ne- 
cessary to upset all the rules and regulations of the 
upper and lower police to obtain permission to weep 
at night, in silence and solitude, over the grave where 
a loved one lies. There ’s a rule for summer and a 
rule for winter about this. 

Certainly, of all the porters in Paris, the porter of 
Pere-Lachaise is the luckiest. In the first place, he has 
no gate-cord to pull ; then, instead of a lodge, he has a 
house, — an establishment which is not quite ministe- 
rial, although a vast number of persons come under his 
administration, and a good many employes. And this 
governor of the dead has a salar}’, with emoluments, 
and acts under powers of which none complain ; he 
plays despot at his ease. His lodge is not a place of 
business, though it has departments where the book- 
keeping of receipts, expenses, and profits, is carried 
on. The man is not a suisse, nor a concierge, nor actu- 
ally a porter. The gate which admits the dead stands 
wide open ; and though there are monuments and 
buildings to be cared for, he is not a care-taker. In 
short, he is an indefinable anomaly, an authority which 
participates in all, and yet is nothing, — an authoritj^ 
placed, like the dead on whom it is based, outside of 
all. Nevertheless, this exceptional man grows out of 
the city of Paris, — that chimerical creation like the ship 


168 


Ferragus. 


which is its emblem, that creature of reason moving 
on a thousand paws which are seldom unanimous in 
motion. 

This guardian of the cemetery may be called a con- 
cierge who has reached the condition of a functionary, 
not soluble by dissolution ! His place is far from being 
a sinecure. He does not allow any one to be buried 
without a permit ; he must count his dead. He points 
out to you in this vast field the six feet square of earth 
where you will one da}^ put all 3’ou love, or all you 
hate, a mistress, or a cousin. Yes, remember this ; all 
the feelings and emotions of Paris come to end here, at 
this porter’s lodge, where the}’ are administrationized. 
This man has registers in which his dead are booked ; 
the}’ are in their graves, and also on his records. He 
has under him keepers, gardeners, grave-diggers, and 
their assistants. He is a personage. Mourning hearts 
do not speak to him at first. He does not appear at 
all except in serious cases, such as one corpse mis- 
taken for another, a murdered body, an exhumation, 
a dead man coming to life. The bust of the reigning 
king is in his hall ; possibly he keeps the late royal, 
imperial, and quasi-royal busts in some cupboard, — a 
sort of little Pere-Lachaise all ready for revolutions. 
In short, he is a public man, an excellent man, good 
husband, and good father, — epitaph apart. But so 
many diverse sentiments have passed before him on 


Ferragiis. 


169 


biers ; he has seen so many tears, true and false ; he 
has beheld sorrow under so many aspects and on so 
many faces ; he has heard such endless thousands of 
eternal woes, — that to him sorrow has come to be noth- 
ing more than a stone an inch thick, four feet long, 
and twenty-four inches wide. As for regrets, they 
are the annoyances of his office ; he neither break- 
fasts nor dines without first wiping off the rain of an 
inconsolable affliction. He is kind and tender to other 
feelings ; he will weep over a stage-hero, over Mon- 
sieur Germeuil in the “ Auberge des Adrets,” the man 
with the butter-colored breeches, murdered Macaire ; 
but his heart is ossified in the matter of real dead men. 
Dead men are ciphers, numbers, to him ; it is his busi- 
ness to organize death. Yet he does meet, three times 
in a centuiy, perhaps, with an occasion when his part 
becomes sublime, and then he is sublime through every 
hour of his day, — in times of pestilence. 

When Jacquet approached him this absolute mon- 
arch was evidently out of temper. 

“ I told you,’’ he was saying, “ to water the flowers 
from the rue Massena to the place Regnault de Saint- 
Jean-d’Angely. You paid no attention to me ! Sac-a- 
papier ! suppose the relations should take it into their 
heads to come here to-day because the weather is fine, 
what would they say to me? The}^ ’d shriek as if they 
were burned ; they ’d say horrid things of us, and 
calumniate us — ” 


170 


Ferragus. 


“ Monsieur,” said Jacquet, “ we want to know where 
Madame Jules is buried.” 

“Madame Jules whof^^ he asked. We’ve had 
three Madame Jules within the last week. Ah,” he 
said, interrupting himself, “ here comes the funeral of 
Monsieur le Baron de Maulincour ! A fine procession, 
that ! He has soon followed his grandmother. Some 
families, when they begin to go, rattle down like a 
wager. Lots of bad blood in Parisians.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Jacquet, touching him on the arm, 
“the person I spoke of is Madame Jules Desmarets, 
the wife of the broker of that name.” 

“Ah, I know!” he replied, looking at Jacquet. 
“Was n’t it a funeral with thirteen mourning coaches, 
and only one mourner in the twelve first? It was so 
droll we all noticed it — ” 

“Monsieur, take care. Monsieur Desmarets is with 
me ; he might hear 3’ou, and what you say is not 
seemly.” 

“I beg pardon, monsieur! you are quite right. 
Excuse me, I took you for heirs. Monsieur,” he con- 
tinued, after consulting a plan of the cemetery, “ Ma- 
dame Jules is in the rue Marechal Lefebre, alley No. 4, 
between Mademoiselle Raucourt, of the Com 4 die-Fran- 
9aise, and Monsieur Moreau-Malvin, a butcher, for 
whom a handsome tomb in white marble has been 
ordered, which will be one of the finest in the 
cemetery — ” 


Ferragus. 171 

“ Monsieur/’ said Jacquet, interrupting him, “ that 
does not help us.” 

‘ ‘ True,” said the official, looking round him. “ Jean,” 
he cried, to a man whom he saw at a little distance, 
“ conduct these gentlemen to the grave of Madame 
Jules Desmarets, the broker’s wife. You know where 
it is, — near to Mademoiselle Raucourt, the tomb where 
there ’s a bust.” 

The two friends followed the guide ; but they did not 
reach the steep path which leads to the upper part of 
the cemetery without having to pass through a score of 
proposals and requests, made, with honied softness, by 
the touts of marble-workers, iron-founders, and monu- 
mental sculptors. 

“ If monsieur would like to order something^ we would 
do it on the most reasonable terms.” 

Jacquet was fortunate enough to be able to spare his 
frieud the hearing of these proposals so agonizing to 
bleeding hearts ; and presently they reached the rest- 
ing-place. When Jules beheld the earth so recently 
dug, into which the masons had stuck stakes to mark 
the place for the stone posts required to support the 
iron railing, he turned and leaned upon Jacquet’s shoul- 
der, raising himself now and again to cast long glances 
at the clay mound where he was forced to leave the re- 
mains of the being in and b}^ whom he still lived. 

‘‘ How miserably she lies there ! ” he said. 


172 


Ferragus. 


‘‘But she is not there,*' said Jacquet, “she is in 
your memory. Come, let us go ; let us leave this odi- 
ous cemetery, where the dead are adorned like women 
for a ball.’* 

“Suppose we take her away?” 

“ Can it be done? ’* 

“All things can be done!” cried Jules. “So, I 
shall lie there,” he added, after a pause. “There is 
room enough.” 

Jacquet finall}" succeeded in getting him to leave the 
great enclosure, divided like a chessboard by iron rail- 
ings and elegant compartments, in which were tombs 
decorated with palms, inscriptions, and tears as cold 
as the stones on which sorrowing hearts had caused 
to be carved their regrets and coats of arms. Many 
good words are there engraved in black letters, epi- 
grams reproving the curious, concetti^ wittily turned 
farewells, rendezvous given at which only one side 
appears, pretentious biographies, glitter, rubbish and 
tinsel. Here the floriated thyrsus, there a lance-head, 
farther on Egyptian urns, now and then a few cannon ; 
on all sides the emblems of professions, and every 
style of art, — Moorish, Greek, Gothic, — friezes, ovules, 
paintings, vases, guardian-angels, temples, together 
with innumerable immortelles^ and dead rose-bushes. 
It is a forlorn comedy ! It is another Paris, with its 
streets, its signs, its industries, and its lodgings ; but 


Fer vagus. 


173 


a Paris seen through the diminishing end of an opera- 
glass, a microscopic Paris reduced to the littleness of 
shadows, spectres, dead men, a human race which no 
longer has anything great about it, except its vanity. 
There Jules saw at his feet, in the long valley of the 
Seine, between the slopes of Vaugirard and Meudon 
and those of Belleville and Montmartre, the real Paris, 
wrapped in a mist}" blue veil produced by smoke, which 
the sunlight rendered at that moment diaphanous. 
He glanced with a constrained eye at those forty thou- 
sand houses, and said, pointing to the space comprised 
between the column of the Place Vendbme and the 
gilded cupola of the Invalides : — 

“ She was wrenched from me there by the fatal curi- 
osity of that world which excites itself and meddles 
solely for excitement and occupation.” 

Twelve miles from where they were, on the banks 
of the Seine, in a modest village lying on the slope of 
a hill of that long hilly basin in the middle of which 
great Paris stirs like a child in its cradle, a death 
scene was taking place, far indeed removed from Paris- 
ian pomps, with no accompaniment of torches or tapers 
or mournifig-coaches, without prayers of the Church, 
in short, a death in all simplicity. Here are the facts : 
The body of a young girl was found early in the morn- 
ing, stranded on the river-bank in the slime and reeds 
of the Seine. Men employed in dredging sand saw it 


174 Ferragus. 

as they were getting into their frail boat on their way 
to their work. 

^^Tiens! fifty francs earned!” said one of them. 

“True,” said the other. 

They approached the body. 

“A handsome girl! We had better go and make 
our statement.” 

And the two dredgers, after covering the body with 
their jackets, went to the house of the village mayor, 
who was much embarrassed at having to make out the 
legal papers necessitated by this discovery. 

The news of this event spread with the telegraphic 
rapidity peculiar to regions where social communica- 
tions have no distractions, where gossip, scandal, cal- 
umny, in short, the social tale which feasts the world 
has no break of continuity from one boundaiy to another. 
Before long, persons arriving at the mayor’s office re- 
leased him from all embarrassment. They were able 
to convert the proces-verbal into a mere certificate of 
death, by recognizing the body as that of the Demoi- 
selle Ida Gruget, corset-maker, living rue de la Cor- 
derie-du-Temple, number 14. The judiciar}’ police of 
Paris arrived, and the mother, bearing her daughter’s 
last letter. Amid the mother’s moans, a doctor certi- 
fied to death by asphyxia, through the injection of 
black blood into the pulmonary sj’stem, — which set- 
tled the matter. The inquest over, and the certificates 


Ferragus. 


175 


signed, by sis o’clock the same evening authority was 
given to biiiy the grisette. The rector of the parish, 
however, refused to receive her into the church or to 
pray for her. Ida Gruget was therefore wrapped in a 
shroud .by an old peasant-woman, put into a common 
pine coffin, and carried to the village cemetery by four 
men, followed by a few inquisitive peasant-women, who 
talked about the death with wonder mingled with some 
pity. 

The widow Gruget was charitably taken in by an 
old lady who prevented her from following the sad 
[irocession of her daughter’s funeral. A man of triple 
functions, the bell-ringer, beadle, and grave-digger of the 
parish, had dug a grave in* the half-acre cemetery be- 
hind the church, — a church well-known, a classic 
church, with a square tower and pointed roof covered 
with slate, supported on the outside by strong corner 
buttresses. Behind the apse of the chancel, lay the 
cemeter}’, inclosed with a dilapidated wall, — a little 
field full of hillocks ; no marble monuments, no vis- 
itors, but surely in every furrow, tears and true regrets, 
which were lacking to Ida Gruget. She was cast into 
a corner full of tall grass and brambles. After the cof- 
fin had been laid in this field, so poetic in its simpli- 
cit}’, the grave-digger found himself alone, for night was 
coming on. While filling the grave, he stopped now 
and then to gaze over the wall along the road. He 


' 176 


Ferragus. 


was standing thus, resting on his spade, and looking 
at the Seine, which had brought him the body. 

“ Poor girl ! ” cried the voice of a man who suddenly 
appeared. 

“ How 3’ou made me jump, monsieur,” said the 
grave-digger. 

“Was any service held over the bod}^ you are 
burying? ” 

“ No, monsieur. Monsieur le cure w^as n’t willing. 
This is the first person buried here who did n’t belong 
to the parish. P^ver3’bod3’ knows everybody else in this 
place. Does monsieur — Wh}’, he ’s gone ! ” 

Some days had elapsed when a man dressed in black 
called at the house of Monsieur Jules Desmarets, and 
without asking to see him carried up to the chamber of 
his wife a large porphyiy vase, on which were inscribed 
the words : — 

Invita Lege 
C oNJUGi Mcerenti 
F iLIOLiE CiNERES 
Restitdit 

AmICIS XII. JUVANTIBUS 
Moribundus Pater. 

“ What a man ! ” cried Jules, bursting into tears. 

Eight da3’s sufficed the husband to obey all the 
wishes of his wife, and to arrange his own affairs. He 


Ferragus. 


177 


sold his practice to a brother of Martin Falleix, and 
left Paris while the authorities were still discussing 
whether it was lawful for a citizen to dispose of the 
body of his wife. 

Who has not encountered on the boulevards of Paris, 
at the turn of a street, or beneath the arcades of the 
Palais-Royal, or in any part of the world where chance 
may offer him the sight, a being, man or woman, at 
whose aspect a thousand confused thoughts spring into 
his mind ? At that sight we are suddenly interested, 
either by features of some fantastic conformation which 
reveal an agitated life, or by a singular effect of the 
whole person, produced by gestures, air, gait, clothes ; 
or by some deep, intense look ; or by other inexpressi- 
ble signs which seize our minds suddenly and forcibl}’ 
without our being able to explain even to ourselves the 
cause of our emotion. The next day other thoughts 
and other images have carried out of sight that passing 
dream. But if we meet the same personage again, 
cither passing at some fixed hour, like the clerk of a 
mayor’s office, who belongs to the marriage business at 
eight o’clock, or wandering about the public prome- 
nades, like those individuals who seem to be a sort of 
furniture of the streets of Paris, and who are always 
to be found in public places, at first representations or 
noted restaurants, — then this being fastens himself or 
12 


178 


Ferragus. 


herself on our memory, and remains there like the first 
volume of a novel the end of which is lost. We are 
tempted to question this unknown person, and say, ^‘Who 
are you ? ” “ Why are 3’ou lounging here ? ” “By what 
right do you wear that pleated ruffle, that faded waist- 
coat, and cany that cane with an ivorj’ top ; why those 
blue spectacles ; for what reason do you cling to that 
cravat of a dead and gone fashion ? ’’ Among these 
wandering creations some belong to the species of the 
Greek Hermse ; they say nothing to the soul ; they are 
there^ and that is all. Why? is known to none. Such 
figures are a tj’pe of those used by sculptors for the 
four Seasons, for Commerce, for Plent}", etc. Some 
others — former lawyers, old merchants, elderlj’ gen- 
erals — move and walk, and 3'et seem stationarj’. Like 
old trees that are half uprooted b}’ the current of a 
river, the}’ seem never to take part in the torrent of 
Paris, with its 3’outhful, active crowd. It is impossible 
to know if their friends have forgotten to bury them, 
or whether the}’ have escaped out of their cofflns. At 
any rate, they have reached the condition of semi- 
fossils. 

One of these Parisian Melmoths had come within a 
few da3’s into a neighborhood of sober, quiet people, 
who, when the weather is fine, are invariabl}^ to be 
found in the space which lies between the south en- 
trance of the Luxembourg and the north entrance of 


Ferragus. 


179 


the Observatoire, — a space without a name, the neutral 
space of Paris. There, Paris is no longer ; and there, 
Paris still lingers. The spot is a mingling of street, 
square, boulevard, fortification, garden, avenue, high- 
road, province, and metropolis ; certainly, all of that is 
to be found there, and yet the place is nothing of all 
that, — it is a desert. Around this spot without a name 
stand the Foundling hospital, the Bourbe, the Cochin 
hospital, the Capucines, the hospital La Rochefoucauld, 
the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, the hospital of the Val-de- 
Grace ; in short, all the vices and all the misfortunes of 
Paris find their as3dum there. And (that nothing may 
lack in this philanthropic centre) Science there studies 
the tides and longitudes. Monsieur de Chateaubriand 
has erected the Marie-Therese Infirmaiy, and the Car- 
melites have founded a convent. The great events 
of life are represented by bells which ring incessantly 
through this desert, — for the mother giving birth, for 
the babe that is born, for the vice that succumbs, for 
the toiler who dies, for the virgin who prays, for the 
old man shaking with cold, for genius self-deluded. 
And a few steps off is the cemeteiy of Mont-Parnasse, 
where, hour after hour, the sorry funerals of the fau- 
bourg Saint-Marceau wend their way. This esplanade, 
which commands a view of Paris, has been taken pos- 
session of by bowl-players ; it is, in fact, a sort of 
bowling-green frequented by old graj^ faces, belonging 


180 


Fcrragus. 


to kindly, worthy men, who seem to continue the race 
of our ancestors, whose countenances must only be 
compared with those of their surroundings. 

The man who had become, during the last few days, 
an inhabitant of this desert region, proved an assidu- 
ous attendant at these games of bowls ; and must, 
undoubtedly, be considered the most striking creature 
of these various groups, who (if it is permissible to 
liken Parisians to the different orders of zoology) be- 
longed to the genus mollusk. The new-comer kept 
sympathetic step with the cochonnet^ — the little bowl 
which serves as a goal and on which the interest of 
the game must centre. He leaned against a tree when 
the coclioniiet stopped ; then, with the same attention 
that a dog gives to his master's gestures, he looked at 
tlie other bowls flying through the air, or rolling along 
the ground. You might have taken him for the weird 
and watchful genii of the cochonnet. He said nothing ; 
and the bowl-players — the most fanatic men that can 
be encountered among the sectarians of any faith — 
had never asked the reason of his dogged silence ; in 
fact, the most observing of them thought him deaf and 
dumb. 

When it happened that the distances between the 
bowls and the cochonnet had to be determined, the cane 
of this silent being was used as a measure, the players 
coming up and taking it from the icy hands of the old 


Ferragus. 


181 


man and returning it without a word or even a sign 
of friendliness. The loan of his cane seemed a servi- 
tude to which he had negatively consented. When a 
shower fell, he staj'ed near the cochonnet^ the slave of 
the bowls, and the guardian of the unfinished game. 
Rain affected him no more than the fine weather did ; 
he was, like the pla3’ers themselves, an intermediary 
species between a Parisian who has the lowest intellect 
of his kind and an animal which has the highest. 

In other respects, pallid and shrunken, indifferent 
to his own person, vacant in mind, he often came 
bareheaded, showing his sparse white hair, and his 
square, 3'ellow’, bald skull, like the knee of a beggar 
seen through his tattered trousers. His mouth was half- 
open, no ideas were in his glance, no precise object 
appeared in his movements ; he never smiled ; he 
never raised his e3’es to heaven, but kept them habit- 
nall3’ on the ground, where he seemed to be looking 
for something. At four o’clock an old woman arrived, ' 
to take him Heaven knows where ; which she did b3" 
towing him along by the arm, as a 3'oung girl drags a 
wilful goat which still wants to browse by the wayside. 
This old man was a horrible thing to see. 

In the afternoon of the day when Jules Desmarets 

left Paris, his travelling-carriage, in which he was 

/ 

alone, passed rapidly through the rue de I’Est, and 
came out upon the esplanade of the Observatoire at 



182 


Ferragus. 


the moment when the old man, leaning against a tree, 
had allowed his cane to be taken from his hand amid 
the noisy vociferations of the pla3’ers, pacifically irri- 
tated. Jules, thinking that he recognized that face, 
felt an impulse to stop, and at the same instant the 
carriage came to a standstill ; for the postilion, hemmed 
in some handcarts, had too much respect for the 
game to call upon the players to make wa}" for him. 

“It is he!” said Jules, beholding in that human 
wreck, Ferragus XXIIL, chief of the Devorants. Then, 
after a pause, he added, “How he loved her! — Go 
on, postilion.” 


THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN. 


SCENES FROM PARISIAN LIFE. 



I 


THE 


LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN. 


I. 

THE TWO GOWNS, LEGAL AND FEMININE. 

“What is the matter, Madeleine?” said Madame 
Cam u sot, as her waiting-maid entered the room with 
the air that servants are apt to assume at critical 
moments. 

“Madame,” replied Madeleine, monsieur has just 
returned from the Palais looking so upset, and in such 
a state, that madame had better, perhaps, go and see 
him in his study.” 

“ Did he say anything?” asked Madame Camusot. 

“No, madame; but none of us ever saw him look 
as he does ; 3’ou ’d think he was beginning on some 
illness ; he is yellow, his features seem all distorted, 
and — ” 

Without waiting to hear more, Madame Camusot 
darted from her dressing-room, and ran to find her 
husband. She found t\\Q juge d'mstruction [examin- 


186 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

ing judge] sitting in an arm-chair, his legs stretched 
out before him, his head resting on the back of the 
chair, his hands hanging, his face pale, his eyes dull, 
precisely as though he were about to swoon. 

“ What is it, my dear friend?” cried his young wife, 
terrified. 

“Ah ! my poor Amelie, such a fatal event has hap- 
pened! I tremble all over. Just fancy, the attorney- 
general — no, Madame de Serizy — that is — I don’t 
know where to begin.” 

“ Begin at the end,” said Madame Camusot. 

“ Well, at the very moment when, in the Council 
chamber of the Premiere, Monsieur Popinot had put 
the last signature to the decree of non-lieu rendered 
on my report, which would have set Lucien de Rubem- 
pre at libert}’’, — in fact, the matter was all finished, the 
clerk was carrying away the record-book, and I was feel- 
ing safe out of the whole affair, — at that moment the 
chief-justice came in and saw the papers. ‘ You are 
setting at liberty a dead man,’ he said. ‘Lucien de 
Rubempre has gone, to use Monsieur de Ronald’s ex- 
pression, before his natural judge. He succumbed to 
a rush of blood to the head, an apoplexy.’ I breathed 
again, believing in some accident. ‘If I understand 
you,’ said Monsieur Popinot, ‘ you mean an apoplexy 
of the Pichegru kind.’ ‘Messieurs,’ said the justice, 
‘ remember, if you please, that to all the world Lucien 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 187 

de Rubempre died of the rupture of an aneurism.’ We 
looked at each other. ‘ Great personages are mixed 
up in this deplorable affair. God grant for 3^our sake, 
Monsieur Camusot, that Madame de Serizy does not 
go mad from the shock. They have taken her home 
half-dead. I have just met the attorney-general, who 
is in great distress. You’ve got j^ourself into a hot 
place, Camusot,’ lie whispered in my car. My dear 
Amelie, as I left the council chamber I could hardl}^ 
walk. My legs trembled so that I dared not trust 
mj’self in the streets, and I went back to m3' office 
to rest awhile. Coquart, who was sorting the papers 
of that wretched examination, told me that a hand- 
some woman had taken the Conciergerie by assault 
trying to save Lucien, and that when she saw him 
hanging by his cravat from a window in the Pistoles 
she fainted away. The idea that the manner in which 
I examined that young man — who, between ourselves, 
was undoubtedly guilty — had caused his suicide has so 
fastened upon me from the moment the news reached me 
that I feel like fainting away myself at every instant.” 

“Nonsense; are 3"OU going to imagine 3^ourself a 
murderer because an accused man kills himself when 
3'ou were just about to set him at liberty?” cried 
Madame Camusot. “ Why ! an examining judge at 
such times is like a general who has a horse killed 
under him, that’s all.” 


188 The Last Incarnation of Vaidrin. 

‘‘Such comparisons, my dear, are only good as 
jests, and jesting is out of place here. The dead kills 
the living in this case. Lucien’s coffin carries off our 
hopes.” 

“Oh ! does it?” said Madame Camusot, sarcasticall}'. 

“Yes, my career is at an end. I shall remain all 
m}" life a mere judge of the courts of the Seine. Mon- 
sieur de Granville was, even before this fatal event, 
very much dissatisfied with the course the examination 
had taken ; and wdiat our chief-justice said to me just 
now proves to m 3 ’ mind that so long as Monsieur de 
Granville remains attorney-general, there will be no 
advancement for me.” 

Advancement! that is the terrible word, the idea, 
which in our day transforms the magistrate into a 
functionary. 

Formei’ly the magistrate was from the beginning that 
which he was to continue to be. The three or four judge- 
ships of the chamber sufficed for all ambitions in each 
parliament. The office of Councillor satisfied a de Brosse 
as it did a Mole, as well at Dijon as at Paris. This 
office, a fortune in itself, required a great fortune to 
maintain it. In Paris, outside of the Parliament, men 
of the long robe could aspire to onl 3 ’ three distinguished 
positions : those of comptroller-general, keeper of the 
seals, and chancellor. In a lower sphere, the assistant 
judge of one of the inferior courts thought himself a 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 189 

person sufficiently distinguished to be willing to stay 
in that post all his life. Compare the position of a 
councillor to the royal court of Paris, whose only for- 
tune in 1829 was his salary, with that of a councillor 
to the Parliament in 1729. Great is the difference! 
In these da^'s when money is made the universal social 
guarantee, magistrates are released from the obligation 
of possessing, as in former times, great fortunes ; the 
consequence is that we see them deputies, peers of 
France, adding office to office, becoming judges and 
legislators, and borrowing importance from positions 
other than those from which alone they ought to derive 
their fame. 

In short, magistrates think, in these days, of distin- 
guishing themselves in order to obtain promotion, as 
men are promoted in the army or in diplomacy. 

This thought, if it does not injure the independence 
of the magistrate, is at least too well-known, and its 
effects are too plainly seen, not to cause the magistracy 
to lose its majesty in public opinion. The salaries 
paid by the State make government employes of the 
priest and the magistrate. The grades to be attained 
develop ambition, ambition "begets compliance toward 
power ; moreover, modern equality puts the judge and 
the person arraigned on the same social level. Conse- 
quently, the two great columns of support to the social 
order — religion and the law — are depreciated in this 


190 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

nineteenth centuiy, in which we think we make such 
progress in all things. 

“And pra}^, why shouldn’t 3"ou be promoted?” said 
Amelie Camusot. 

She looked at her husband with a satirical air, for 
she felt the necessity" of giving energy" to the man who 
bore her ambition and on whom she was accustomed 
to play like an instrument. 

“Why despair?” she continued, with a gesture that 
well depicted her indifference to the suicide of the pris- 
oner. “This death will please two of Lucien’s ene- 
mies, Madame d’Espard and her cousin, Madame du 
Chatelet. Madame d’Espard is on the best of terms 
with the Keeper of the Seals. You can obtain, through 
her, an interview with his Excellency, and tell him, 
yourself, the secret of this affair. And then, if the 
minister of Justice is on j^our side, why need 3"Ou fear 
your own chief-justice or the attorne3’-general ? ” 

“But Monsieur and Madame de Seriz3" !” cried the 
poor judge, “Madame de Serizy, I tell 3’ou, has gone 
mad, — and gone mad through my blunder, the3^ sa3\” 
“Well, if she is mad, oh, judge of no judgment,” 
said Madame Camusot, laughing, “ she can’t do 3’ou 
an3' harm. Come, tell me all the events of the da3%” 
“Ah!” replied Camusot, with a sigh, “just as I 
had finished examining the 3’oung man, and had got 
him to declare that the Spanish priest was really 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 191 

Jacques Collin, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and 
Madame de Seriz}’ sent me, by a footman, a little note 
in which they requested me not to examine him. But 
it was all done.” 

“Have 3’ou lost your head?” said Amelie, “Sure 
as you are of your clerk, 3’ou might have called back 
Lucien, reassured him, and altered the examination.” 

“ You are like Madame de Serizj" ; that would be 
a mockeiy of justice,” said Camusot, incapable of tri- 
fling with his profession. “Madame de Seriz}’ seized 
the examination-papers, and threw them into the .fire.” 

“ Ah ! bravo ! there ’s a woman indeed ! ” cried Ma- 
dame Camusot. 

“Madame de Seriz}' told me she would blow up 
the Palais rather than let a 3’oung man who had stood 
well in her good graces and those of Madame de Mau- 
frigneuse sit in the dock at the court of assizes beside 
a galle3'-slave.” 

“But, Camusot,” said Amelie, unable to repress a 
smile of superiorit3", “3'our position is superb.” 

“Ah! superb indeed I ” 

“ You have done 3’our dut3’.” 

“ Yes, but I Ve done it unluckil}', and in spite of 
the Jesuitical advice of Monsieur de Granville, who met 
on the Quai Malaquais — ” 

“ This morning?” 

“Yes, this morning.” 


192 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“What hour?” 

“Nine o’clock.” 

“ Oh ! Camusot ! ” said Amelie, clasping her hands 
and wringing them, “ how often have I told you to be 
careful about everything. Good heavens ! it is not a 
man, it is a load of stone I drag after me. But, Cam- 
usot, don’t you see that if your attorney-general inter- 
cepted you, it was because he had something he wanted 
of you?” 

“ Well, yes.” 

“ And you did n’t understand him ! If j^ou are so 
deaf as that, you will certainly stay an examining judge 
without examinations all the rest of your life. Have 
the sense to listen to me,” she said, making her hus- 
band, who began to answer her, hold his tongue. “Do 
3 ’ou think the affair ended?” 

Camusot looked at his wife as peasants look at a 
juggler. 

“ If the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and the Comtesse 
de Serizy have compromised themselves in this way,” 
she continued, you can have them both as your pro- 
tectresses. Let us consider. Madame d’Espard will 
obtain for you an audience with the Keeper of the 
Seals ; you will tell him the secrets of the affair, and 
he will amuse the King with them ; all sovereigns like 
to see the other side of the tapestr}’, and know the 
real causes of the events the public gape at. From 


The Last Incarnation of •Vautrin. 193 

that moment neither Monsieur de Serizy nor the attor- 
ne3’-general need be feared.” 

“ What a treasure of a woman 3 011 are ! ” cried the 
judge, recovering a little courage. “ After all, I have 
ferreted out Jacques Collin ; 1 ’ll send him to his de- 
serts at the coui’t of assizes ; I ’ll unmask his crimes. 
Such an affair is a triumph for an examining judge.” 

“ Camusot,” said Amelie, pleased to see her husband 
recovering from the mental and plwsical prostration 
Lucien’s suicide had caused him, “ the chief-justice 
told 3’ou a while ago that you were in a hot place, but 
now you ’re jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. 
M3' dear friend, you are blundering again.” 

The examining judge stood bolt upright looking at 
his wife in a sort of stupefaction. 

“The King and the Keeper of the Seals,” she went 
on, ‘^may like ver3' well to know the secrets of the 
affair, and at the same time be much displeased if 
the liberals should la3' hold of the matter and drag 
before the bar of public opinion and the court of' as- 
sizes, names of such importance as S4riz3' and Mau- 
frigneuse and Grandlieu, — in short, all those who are 
involved directly or indirectl3' in this affair.” 

“ Ha! the3' are all in it! I hold them in the palm 
of my hand ! ” cried Camusot. He got up and stalked 
about his studv, veiy much as Sganarelle does on the 
stage when he tries to get out of a scrape. 

13 


194 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Listen, Amelie,” he continued, placing himself 
directly in front of his wife. “A circumstance recurs 
to my mind which seemed' of slight importance at the 
time, but, placed as I now am, it may be of vital use 
to me. Eecollect, my dearest, that this Jacques Collin 
is a colossus of shrewdness, dissimulation, and trickery ; 
a man of profound — ah ! what shall I call him ? — he ’s 
the Cromwell of the galleys! I never in my life met 
with such a knave ; he almost baffled me ! But in 
criminal examinations a single thread which you hap- 
pen to catch sight of will often give 3 'ou the wdiole 
ball by which to find your wa\' through the lalnuinth 
of the darkest consciences or the best-concealed facts. 
When Jacques Collin saw me handling the letters seized 
at Lucien’s house, the rascal gave those papers the 
glance of a man who wants to see if any other packet 
is among them, and he made a motion of satisfaction. 
That glance of a criminal looking for his treasure, that 
gesture which said ‘ I still hold mv weapons,’ made me 
understand a world of things. There are none but 
you women and prisoners and ourselves who can, in 
a single look, express whole scenes which reveal a 
complicated deception, like the key- words of a safe. 
A volume of suspicions are conceived in a moment. 
It is terrible ; it is life or death in a glance. ‘ That 
fellow has other letters in his possession,’ thought I. 
Then the other points of the affair occupied m 3 ’ mind, 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 195 

and I forgot the incident; for I then expected to con- 
front the two men, and clear up this matter later. But 
we ma}’ now consider it as certain that Jacques Collin 
has put in some safe place, as these wretches always 
do, the most compromising letters of that handsome 
3*outh adored b\’ so — ” 

“And 3-ou tremble, Camusot! Why, 3’ou will be 
chief-justice of the Royal courts far sooner than I 
thought ! ” cried Madame Camusot, her face radi- 
ant. “Let us consider; you must act in a wa3’ to 
satisf3’ everybod3’, for the affair is evidentl3’ so serious 
that it ma3’ be stolen from us. Did n’t the3’ take out of 
Popinot’s hands and give to 3’ou the proceedings in the 
case of the injunction applied for b3’ Madame d’Espard 
against her husband? ” she asked, in repl3' to a gesture 
of amazement made b3’ Camusot. “ Well, the attorne3’- 
general, who takes such a livel3’ interest in the affairs 
of Monsieur and Madame de Seriz3’, might carr3’ the 
affair before the Royal courts, and put it into the 
hands of a counsellor with orders to make a fresh 
examination.” 

'‘''Ah ga! my dear, where did you pick up such 
knowledge of criminal law?” cried Camusot. “You 
know all ; you are my master.” 

“ Don’t you know that to-morrow morning Monsieur 
de Granville will be alarmed at the probable action of 
some liberal lawyer whom Jacques Collin will have no 


196 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

difficult}^ in securing? You may be sure those ladies 
know their danger as well, or even better, than you. 
They will inform the attorne^’-general, who is already 
anxious lest the names of these great families should be 
involved with that of a galley-slave, through Lucie n, 
the betrothed of Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, the lover 
of Esther, the friend of Madame de Maufrigneuse, and 
the cherished darling of Madame do Seriz^’. You must 
manoeuvre this matter in a way to conciliate the good- 
will of the attorne3’-general, the gratitude of Monsieur 
de Seriz}', that of Madame d’Espard, and the Comtesse 
du Chatelet ; and at the same time you must strengthen 
the protection Madame de Maufrigneuse already gives 
3’ou with that of the house of Grandlieu. As for me, 
I ’ll take charge of the Espard, Maufrigneuse, and 
Grandlieu part of the business. You must go to- 
morrow morning earl3^ to the attorne3'-general. Mon- 
sieur de Granville is a man who, the3' tell me, does n't 
live with his wife, he has a mistress ; he is no saint, 
but a man like all the rest ; he can be persuaded and 
seduced if 3’ou find his weak spot. Ask him for ad- 
vice ; show him the danger of the affair. In short, try 
to compromise 3’ourselves in compan3', and 3'ou wdll — ” 
“I kiss your very footsteps!” cried Camusot, 
interrupting his wife to catch her round the waist and 
press her to his heart. “ Arne lie, 3’ou have saved 
me I ” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 197 

“ It was I who towed you from Alengon to Mantes, 
and from Mantes to the courts of the Seine,’’ replied 
Amelie. “Well, don’t be uneasy; I mean to be the 
wife of the chief-justice in five years from now — only, 
m3’' little man, think, and think long before you come to 
decisions. The business of a judge is not that of a 
fireman ; the flames are not in your papers. You have 
time enough to reflect ; therefore, in such a position as 
yours, blunders are inexcusable.” 

“ The strength of m3’ present position lies whoil3’ in 
the identity of the Spanish priest with Jacques Collin,” 
said the judge, after a long pause. “ When*once that 
identit3’ is full3" established, even though the Royal 
court might take cognizance of the case, it will remain 
an actual fact, the credit of which no one can take 
awa3’ from me. I ’m like the children who tie a rattle 
to the cat’s tail ; no matter where the case is tried, 
Jacques Collin’s chains will always clank.” 

“ Bravo ! ” said Amelie. 

“ Besides, the attorne3’-general would rather come to 
an understanding with me who can alone lift this sv^^ord 
of Damocles from those heads of the faubourg Saint- 
Germain than with an3" other. But you don’t know 
how difficult it will be to bring about that result. Just 
now tlie attorney-general, sitting in his office, agreed to 
take Jacques Collin for what he claims to be, — a canon 
of the Chapter of Toledo, Don Carlos Herrera ; we de- 


198 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

terniined to admit his status as a diplomatic envo}^, and 
to allow the Spanish embassy to have him. It was in 
consequence of this agreement that I released Lucien 
de Rubempre. To-morrow Messieurs de Rastignac 
and Bianchon were to be confronted with the so-called 
priest ; but they would not have recognized Jacques 
Collin, whose last arrest took place in their presence 
ten years ago, in a common boarding-house, where he 
went by the name of Vautrin.” 

Silence reigned for a few moments while Madame 
Camusot reflectedc 

“Are .you sure that he is Jacques Collin?” she 
asked. 

“Quite sure,” replied the judge, “and so is the 
attorney-general.” 

“ Well, then, tiy, without showing the claws under 
your fur, to filch a credit from the Palais de Justice. 
If your convict is still in solitary confinement, go im- 
mediately to the director of the Conciergerie, and have 
him publicly identified. Instead of imitating children, 
imitate the ministers of police in despotic countries, 
who invent conspiracies against their sovereign to gain 
the credit of defeating them, and so make themselves 
necessary. Put the three families in danger, in order 
to have the glory of saving them.” 

“ Ah, what luck ! ” cried Camusot; “ my head was 
so troubled and worried that I forgot that circumstance. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 199 

The order to put Jacques Collin in the Pistoles was 
taken by Coquart to Monsieur Gault, the director of 
the Conciergerie. Now, Bibi-Lupin, Jacques Collin’s 
greatest enemy, has transferred three criminals, who 
know him well, from La Force to the Conciergerie. 
When he comes down to-morrow into the pr^au^ the 
y ard where the prisoners take their exercise, a terrible 
scene is expected to take place.” 

“ Why terrible?” 

“ Jacques Collin, my dear, is the trusted depositary 
of the fortunes of the convicts at the galleys, which 
amount to a considerable sum of money. He has, they 
suspect, wasted them upon Lucien, and these three 
men will call him to account for it. Bibi-Lupin tells 
me there will be an assault upon him which will require 
the interference of the jailers, and the truth will be 
discovered. Jacques Collin’s life will be in danger. 
By going to the Palais very early, I shall be able to 
draw up the report of his identity before it is generally 
known.” 

“Ah! if his comrades relieve you of him, you will 
be thought a most capable man ! Don’t go to see 
Monsieur de Granville ; let him come to you. Await 
him with that formidable weapon in your hand. It is 
a cannon pointed at the three most distinguished fami- 
lies of the court and peerage. Be bold ; propose to 
Monsieur de Granville to rid y’ou of Jacques Collin by 


200 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

transferring him to La Force. I will go m3’self to the 
Duchesse de Maufrigneiise and get her to take me to 
the Grandlieus. Perhaps I shall also see Monsieur de 
Seriz3% Trust to me to ring the alarm all round. 
Write me a line to let me know the moment the Span- 
ish priest is recognized to be Jacques Collin. Arrange 
your affairs so that you can leave the Palais at any 
moment, for I shall get an appointment for 3'ou with 
the Keeper of the Seals. Perhaps he ma3^ be at Madame 
d’Espard’s.” 

Camusot stood, planted on his legs, in an attitude of 
admiration which made his clever Amelie smile. 

‘‘ Come, let’s go to dinner and be ga3' ! ” she said. 
“ See ! we have been only two years in Paris, and here 
you are on the high-road to be a councillor in a few 
months. Thence, 1113" dear, to the chief-justiceship 
there is but the distance of some service rendered in 
a political matter.’’ 

This private conference shows to what a point the 
actions and words of Jacques Collin affected the honor 
of families in the midst of whom he had placed and 
maintained his deceased protege. 


The Last lucaniatloa of Vautrin. 


201 


11 . 

THE MAN IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT, AND IN THE 
SOLITUDE OF HIS SOUL. 

Lucien’s death and the invasion of the Conciergerie 
by Madame de Serizy had produced such disturbance to 
the running-gear of that machine that the director had 
forgotten to release the Spanish priest from the secret 
cells and place him in i\\(i pistoles. 

Though there is more than one instance in judiciary 
annals of the death of an accused person during the 
preliminary examination of a case, it is sufficiently rare 
to force the warders, clerks, and the director himself, 
out of the usual calmness with which the}’' perform 
their duties. And 3’et, to their minds, the great event 
was not that a fine young man was suddenl}^ a corpse, 
but that a wrought-iron bar at their gateway had been 
broken by the delicate hands of a fashionable woman. 
No sooner, therefore, had the attorney-general, Comte 
Octave de Bauvan, and the Comte de Seriz}', carried off 
the fainting countess in the latter’s carriage, than the 
director and all his assistants, together with Monsieur 
Lebrun, the prison doctor (called to certify the young 
man’s death, in company with the “death doctor” of 


202 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

the arrondissefnent in which Liicien lived), collected 
about the iron gate to examine it. 

We ina}' mention here that in Paris the “ death 
doctor” is a physician whose business it is in each 
arrondisseinent to verifj' all deaths, and examine into 
their causes. 

With the rapidity of judgment which distinguished 
him, Monsieur de Granville had seen that it was neces- 
saiy, for the honor of the three families concerned, that 
Lucien’s death should be certified to in the arrondisse- 
ment of the Quai Malaquais, where he had lived ; and 
that the funeral procession should proceed from his 
own house to the parish church, Saint-Germain des 
Pres, where the services were to be held. Monsieur de 
Chargeboeuf, Monsieur de Granville’s secretaiy, sent by 
him, had orders to that effect. The removal of Lucien’s 
bod}’ from the prison to his late home was to take place 
during the night. To all the world, therefore, Lucien 
would seem to have died in his own house, where his 
friends were invited to assemble to attend his funeral. 

Therefore, at the moment when, Camusot, with a 
mind relieved, was sitting down to table with his 
ambitious better-half, the director of the Conciergerie, 
the prison doctor, and the death doctor were standing 
outside the iron railing, deploring the fragility of iron 
bars and discussing the extraordinary strength of ner- 


vous women. 


Tlic Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 203 

“ No one knows,” said the prison doctor to Mon- 
sieur Gault, the director, “ what amazing nervous force 
there is in persons violently excited by passion. Math- 
ematics and dynamics are without signs or calculations 
by which to estimate that force. Onlj' 3’esterday I 
W’as witness of a magnetic experiment which made me 
shudder, and which explains to a certain extent the 
extraordinaiy physical power displajed bj' that little 
woman.” 

“Tell me about it,” said Monsieur Gault, ‘‘for I 
have the weakness to be much interested in magnet- 
ism without believing in it; 1 must sa}* it puzzles me.” 

“ A magnetizing physician, for we have men in the 
facult}’ who believe in magnetism,” continued Monsieur 
Lebrun, “proposed to experiment on me a phenome- 
non which he described and which I doubted. Curious 
to see in my own person one of those strange nervous 
crises, b}' which the^’ prove the existence of magnet- 
ism, I consented. This is what happened, — and I 
should like to know what the Academy of Medicine 
would sa}', if each member, one after the other, sub- 
mitted his limbs to an influence which left no possible 
chance for incredulitj*. My. old friend — But I should 
tell 3'ou,” said Doctor Lebrun, beginning a parenthesis, 
“ that this doctor is an old man, persecuted b3' the 
Faculty for his opinions, which are 'those of Mesmer. 
He is over seventy years of age, and his name is Bou- 


204 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

yard. He may be called the patriarch of the doctrine 
of animal magnetism. I am like a son to the old man, 
and I owe my profession to him. So, then, this worthy 
Bouvard proposed to prove to me that the nervous 
force called into action by a magnetizer is not infinite, 
for man is ruled by definite laws, but that it proceeds 
from forces of nature whose essential principles escape 
calculation. ‘If,’ he said to me, ‘ 3’ou are willing to 
put your hand into the grasp of a somnambulist who 
in her waking state has not the strength to squeeze 
be3’ond a certain appreciable force, 3’ou will find that in 
the condition foolishl3" called somnambulic, her fingers 
have the faculty of acting like the nippers of a lock- 
smith.’ Well, monsieur, when I did give my wrist into 
the grasp of a woman, not asleep^ — Bouvard objects 
to that expression, — but isolated^ and w'lien the old 
man told her to press my wrist with all her force, I 
was compelled to beg her to release me, for the blood 
was beginning to burst from m3" fingers’ ends. Here, 
look at the bracelet I shall wear for the next three 
months.” 

“The deuce!” cried Monsieur Gault, looking at a 
circular discoloration very much like that produced by 
a burn. 

“ M3’ dear Gault,” said the doctor, “ if I had liad 
my flesh held in an iron band which was tightened b3’ 
the vise of a locksmith, I could not have felt that 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 


205 


metal circle more severel}’ than I did the fingers of that 
woman. Her grasp was that of steel, and I am con- 
vinced she could liave crushed the bones and have sep- 
arated the hand from tlie wrist. This pressure began 
in an almost imperceptible manner, continued without 
relaxing to gather force, until at last a tourniquet could 
have had no closer grip than the woman’s hand thus 
changed into an instrument of torture. It seems to 
me to prove that, under the empire of passion, which 
is will concentrated on one point -and attaining to in- 
calculable volumes of animal strength (as do all the 
various species of electrical powers), it proves, I sa}*, 
that man can bring his whole vitaliU^ either for attack 
or for resistance, into an}’ given organ. That little 
woman had, under the pressure of despair, put her 
whole vital strength into her wrists.” 

“ It takes a devilish deal to break an iron bar,” said 
the head jailer, shaking his head. 

There must ha\;e been a straw, in it,” remarked 
Monsieur Gault. 

As for me,” said the doctor, “ I no longer venture 
to assign limits to nervous force. It is that by which 
mothers to save their children magnetize lions, or go 
through flames, or walk on ridge-poles where cats can 
hardly crawl, and bear the tortures of a difficult child- 
birth. In it is the secret of attempts made by pris- ^ 
oners and convicts to regain their liberty. I tell you 


206 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

no one 3^et knows the ultimate reach of the vital forces ; 
they share the power of Nature herself, and we draw 
from them as from hidden reservoirs.” 

“ Monsieur,” said a warder, whispering in the direc- 
tor’s ear, as he was about to accompanj' the doctor to 
the outer gate of the Conciergerie, “ Number Two, in 
the solitaries, says he is ill, and wants the doctor. He 
pretends he is dying,” added the man. 

“ Is it true? ” asked the director. 

“ Well, his throat .rattles. ” 

“It is five o’clock, and I ’ve not dined,” said the 
doctor. “ However, here I am on the spot; come, let 
us go to him.’’ 

“ Number Two, in the solitaries, is tliat very Spanish 
priest suspected of being Jacques Collin,” said the 
director to the doctor. “He is one of the accused 
persons in the affair in which that poor young man 
vras implicated.” 

“I saw him this morning,” said the doctor. “ Mon- 
sieur Camusot sent for me to examine the physical 
condition of the fellow, who, between ourselves, is per- 
fectl}' well, and might make his fortune as a Hercules 
among a troop of acrobats.” 

“ He may be trying to kill himself,” said Monsieur 
Gault. “ Come, let us both go to the solitaries ; in 
fact, I ought to go and transfer the man to the pistoles. 
Monsieur Camusot has released this singular nonde- 
script from close confinement.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


207 


Jacques Collin, nicknamed Trompe-la-Mort in the 
world of the galkys, and to whom we shall henceforth 
give no other name than his own, had been, from the 
moment of his re-incarceration b}’ Camusot’s order, in 
the grasp of an anxiet}’ he had never before known in 
the course of a life marked by man}^ crimes, bj^ three 
escapes from the galle3’s, and two sentences in the 
court of assizes. This man, in whom the life, force, 
mind, and passions of the galleys are summed up, who 
presents the veiy highest expression of that under- 
world, was yet astonishingh’ fine in his attachment, 
worth}’ of the canine race, to the being he had made his 
fj’iend. Infamous, horrible, and deserving of condem- 
nation on all sides, this absolute devotion to his idol 
does render him so truly interesting that our study of his 
past career would be unfinished, incomplete, if the de- 
nouement of this criminal existence did not follow that 
of Lucien de Eubempre. The little spaniel dead, we 
cannot but ask ourselves what became of* his terrible 
companion, the lion. 

In real life^ as in social life, facts are so fatally inter- 
locked with other facts that none can be taken and the 
others left. The water of a river forms a species of 
liquid floor ; there is no flood, however raging it may 
be, to whatever height it may rise, wdiose foaming 
crests will not sink beneath the volume of the water, 
which is stronger in the rapidity of its course than the 


208 The Last Incarnation of Vavirin. 

rebellious whirlpools which it meets and sweeps away. 
Perhaps it is desirable to consider the pressure of the 
Social power on that whirlpool called Vautrin, to note 
the spot at which the rebel vortex sank, and learn 
the end of a man who was truly diabolical, and yet was 
fastened to humanity by love, — so hard is it for that 
sacred principle to perish, even in a gangrened heart. 

The ignoble convict, in materializing the poetic idea 
wooed by so many poets, by Moore, Byron, Mathurin, 
Canalis (that of a demon possessing an angel drawn to 
hell to refresh him with the dews of paradise), — Jacques 
Collin, if we have really penetrated that heart of iron, 
had renounced self for seven 3'ears past. Ilis powerful 
faculties, absorbed in Lucien, were exercised for Lucien 
only ; he lived in his progress, his loves, his ambition. 
For him, Lucien was his visible soul. 

Trompe-la-Mort dined at the Grandlieus, glided into 
the boudoir of great ladies, loved Esther, vicariousl3\ 
He saw in «Lucien a Jacques Collin, 3’oung, beautiful, 
noble, attaining to the rank of an ambassador. 

Trompe-la-Mort had realized the German supersti- 
tion of the Double through a phenomenon of mental 
paternit3" which will be understood hy those women 
who in the course of their lives having loved truly 
have felt their soul passing into tlie soul of the man 
they loved ; who have lived of his life, noble or infa- 
mous, happy or unhappy, obscure or famous ; who 


The Last hicarmtion of Vautrin. 209 

have felt, in spite of distance, a pain in their leg if his 
was wounded ; and wdio, to sum all up, have no need 
to hear that he has proved unfaithful in order to 
know it. 

When returned to his solitaiy cell, Jacques Collin’s 
thought was: — 

‘‘ They are questioning the young one ! ” 

He shuddered, — he who could strike as another man 
drinks. 

“Has he seen those women? Will they warn him ? 
Has my aunt been able to find those damned females? 
Those duchesses, those countesses, have they taken 
proper steps? Have the}' stopped the examination? 
Has Lucien received my letter? If fate wills that he 
be examined, how will lie carry himself? Ah, poor 
boy ! it is I who have brought him to this ! That brig- 
and of a Paccard, and that sneak Europe, got us into 
this mess b}' filching the seven hundred and fifty 
thousand francs which Nucingen gave Esther. Those 
villains knocked us over at the very last step ; but 
the}" ’ll pay dear for it ! One day more, and Lucien 
was rich, and married to Clotilde de Grandlieu. Esther 
was no longer in my way. Lucien loved that girl too 
well, and there ’s no loving a sheet-anchor like Clotilde. 
Ah ! the young one would then have been all mine. 
And now, only to think that our fate depends on a 
look, on a tinge of color in Lucien’s face before that 


14 


210 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Camusot, who sees all, and, fool as he is, has the sl}’- 
ness of a judge. I saw the look he gave me when I 
glanced at those letters ; he detected that I could 
expose those women if I chose.’’ 

And so the monologue went on for three hours. The 
agony was so great that it got the better of that crea- 
ture of iron and vitriol. Jacques Collin, whose brain 
was fired almost to madness, felt such devouring thirst 
that he drank, without observing that he did so, all the 
water contained in two buckets, which, with a wooden 
bedstead, form the whole furniture of a soUtar 3 ’-cell. 

“If he loses his head, what will become of him? 
For the poor bo}^ has n’t the force of a Theodore ! ” he 
thought, as he flung himself on the camp bedstead, 
which was like that of a guard-room. 

One word here about this Theodore whom Jacques 
Collin remembered in this crucial moment. Theodore 
Calvi, a young Corsican, condemned to the galleys for 
life, for eleven murders before he was eighteen 3 ’ears 
of age, thanks to certain influence purchased with gold, 
had been Jacques Collin’s chain companion in 1819 
and 1820. The last escape of Jacques Collin, one of 
his ablest performances (he left the galle 3 ’s dressed as 
a gendarme conducting Theodore Calvi as a prisoner 
before the commissary), had taken place at Rochefort 
where the couAUcts die in shoals, and where the author- 
ities hoped these two dangerous characters would soon 


' The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 211 

end their da^’s. Escaping together, they were forced 
to separate immediate!}’. Theodore, recaptured, was 
. returned to the galleys. Jacques Collin, after reach- 
ing Spain and transforming himself into Carlos Herrera, 
was on his wa}’ back to Paris, when he met Lucien on 
the banks of the Charente. 

Life with Lucien, a j’outh free of all criminality, 
who had onl}' peccadilloes on his conscience, rose to 
the mind of the escaping convict like the sun of a sum- . 
mer’s day ; whereas, with Theodore, Jacques Collin 
could see no other ending but the scaffold, after a 
series of inevitable crimes. 

The idea of some misfortune caused by Lucien’s 
weakness, who was likely to lose his head under the 
trial of solitary confinement, took enormous propor- 
tions in Jacques Collin’s brain. Dwelling on the pos- 
sibility of a catastrophe, his eyes filled with tears, — a 
phenomenon, which since his infancy had never been 
genuinel}" produced in him. 

“ I ’ve a horse-fever on me,” he said to himself, ^^and 
perhaps, if I get the doctor here and offer him a round 
sum, he will help me to communicate with Lucien.’’ 

Just then the jailer brought in his dinner. 

“It is useless, my lad,” he said ; “I can’t eat. Tell 
the director of this prison to send me the doctor ; I 
feel so ill that I think m3’ last hour has come.” 

Hearing the guttural sounds of a rattle, with which 


212 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

tlie convict accompanied these words, the jailer nodded 
his head and went awa}’. Jacques Collin fastened 
madly upon this hope ; but when he saw the doctor 
enter his cell accompanied the director, he felt that 
his scheme had miscarried, and coldly awaited the re- 
sult of the visit, holding out his pulse to the doctor. 

“ Monsieur has a fever,” said the doctor, to Monsieur 
Gault, “ but it is the fever we find in nearly’ all accused 
persons, and which,” he whispered in the ear of the 
false priest, “is to me the sign of some guilt.” 

At this moment the director, to whom the attorne}^- 
general had given the letter written b}' Lucien to 
Jacques Collin for transmission to the latter, left the 
cell to get it, leaving the doctor with the prisoner, in 
charge of the jailer. 

“ Monsieur,” said Jacques Collin to the doctor, see- 
ing the jailer outside the door, and being unable to 
explain to himself the departure of the director, I 
should n’t consider a matter of thirty thousand francs, 
if I could be enabled to send five lines to Lucien de 
Rubempre.” 

“Twill not steal 3'our money,” replied the doctor, 
“No one on earth can communicate with that young 
man.” 

“ No one? ” said Jacques Collin, bewildered. “ Why 
not? ” 


“ Because he has hanged himself.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 213 

Never tigress robbed of her cubs made the jungle 
of India resound with a more awful cry than that which 
burst from Jacques Collin. He rose to his feet as the 
tigress on her paws, and cast a flaming look upon the 
doctor like the lightning when it strikes, then sud- 
denly he dropped back upon the camp-bed, saying, 
“ Oh ! my son ! ” 

“ Poor man ! ” exclaimed the doctor, moved b3" this 
terrible struggle of nature. 

In truth, that explosion was followed by such com- 
plete prostration that the words Oh ! m3’ son ! ” were 
like a murmur. 

“Is he, too, going to slip through our fingers?’* 
asked the jailer. 

“ It is not possible,” said Jacques Collin, raising 
himself and looking at the two witnesses of this scene 
with an e3’e without flame or warmth, “ You are mis- 
taken, it was not he. You saw wrong. A man can- 
not hang himself in solitaiy confinement. Look ! could 
I hang m3’self here? All Paris shall answer to me for 
that life? God owes it to me ! ” 

The jailer and the doctor were bewildered in their 
turn, — the3', whom nothing for man3' a 3’ear had been 
able to surprise. Monsieur Gault came in, holding 
Lucien’s letter in his hand. On seeing the director, 
Jacques Collin, exhausted by the violence of that ex- 
plosion of grief, seemed to calm himself. 


214 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

“ Here is a letter which the attorney-general charged 
me to give you ; he allows you to receive it unopened,” 
said Monsieur Gault. 

“ Is it from Lucien? asked Jacques Collin. 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ That proves that this young man — ” 

“Is dead,” said the director. “Even if the physi- 
cian had been on the spot he could not have saved 
him. The young man is dead, there, — in one of the 
pistoles T 

“ May I see him with my own e^^es? ” asked Jacques 
Collin, timidly. “Will you give a father freedom to 
mourn his son?” 

“ Yes ; you ma}", if 3’ou like, take his room. I have 
orders to transfer you to one of the pistoles; 3011 are 
no longer in solitary confinement, monsieur.” 

The prisoner’s eyes, devoid of warmth and life, 
moved slowly from the director to the doctor. Jacques 
Collin questioned them ; he seemed to fear some trap, 
and hesitated to leave the cell. 

“ If you wish to see the body,” said the doctor, 
“ 3'ou have no time to lose. It is to be removed to- 
night.” 

“ If 3’ou have children, messieurs,” said Jacques 
Collin, “ you will comprehend m3^ imbecilit3\ I can 
hardl3" see. The blow is to me far more than death ; 
but you cannot know what I mean. You are not fath- 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin, 215 

ers, or if 3’ou are, onlj' in one waj’ ; I am a mother, 
too. I, I am mad, — I feel it.” 

following passages the inflexible doors of which 
open only for the director, it is possible to go in a ver}^ 
short time from the solitary-cells to the pistoles. The 
two lines of cells are separated by a subterranean cor- 
ridor, formed bj’ two thick walls which support the 
arches on which the gallery of the Palais de Justice, 
called the Galerie Marchande, rests. So that Jacques 
Collin, accompanied b^^ the jailer, who took him by^ the 
arm, preceded by the director and followed by the doc- 
tor, was only a few moments in reaching the cell where 
Lucien lay. They had placed him on a bed. 

At the sight, the convict fell upon the body’, clinging 
to it with a grip of despair, the strength and pas- 
sionate movement of which made the three spectators 
shudder. 

“There,” said the doctor, in a low voice to the 
director, “ is an example of what I was saying to you. 
See ! the man will crush that body, and you know what 
a dead body is ; it is stone.” 

“ Leave me here,’’ said Jacques Collin, in a voice 
that was almost extinct. “ I have not long to see him ; 
they will take him from me to — ” 

He stopped, unable to say “ bury.” 

“ You will let me keep something of my dear child? 
Have the kindness, monsieur,” he said to the doctor, 


216 The Last Incarnation of Vaitirin.. 

“ to cut me, yourself, a few locks of his hair, for I 
cannot.’’ 

“ Surely that must be his son,” said the doctor. 

“ I doubt it,” said the director, with a thoughtful air 
which threw the doctor into a revery. 

The director told the jailer to leave the prisoner 
alone in the cell, and to cut off some locks of liair 
from the young man’s head before the body was 
removed. 

At half-past five o’clock in the month of May it is 
eas}' to read a letter in the Conciergerie, even behind 
the bars and iron network which darken the windows. 
There, Jacques Collin, holding Lucien’s hand, read that 
terrible letter. 

No man has been found who could hold a piece of 
ice in his hand, grasping it in his palm, for ten min- 
utes. Its cold would affect the sources of life with 
deadly rapidity. But the effect of such terrible cold, 
acting like a poison, is scarcely comparable to that 
produced upon the soul by the stiff and icy hand of 
a corpse held in the same way. Death speaks then 
to Life ; it tells black secrets, which kill many 
feelings. And to change our feelings, is not that to 
die? 

As we re-read, with Jacques Collin, Lucien’s letter, 
it will be seen what it was to this man, — a cup of 
poison : — 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


217 


To the Ahhe Carlos Herrera : 

My DEAR Abb]^. — I have received nothing but bene- 
fits from you and I liave betrayed you. This involuntary 
ingratitude kills me, and when you read these lines I shall 
no longer exist, — you are no longer here to save me. 

You' gave me full right, in case I found an advantage 
in it, to sacrifice you, and throw you away like the end of 
a cigar; but I have sacrificed you foolishly. To get my- 
self out of difficulty, misled by the captious questioning 
of the examining judge, I, your spiritual son, whom you 
adopted, went over to the side of those wlio wish at any 
cost to destroy you by discovering an identity (which I 
know to be impossible) between you and a French criminal. 
All is over. 

Between a man of your power and me, of whom you have 
tried to make a greater person than I could be, there should 
be no silly sentiment at the moment of our final parting. 
You have wished to make me powerful and famous ; you 
have flung me into the gulf of suicide — that is all. 1 have 
long seen its vertigo approaching me. 

There is, as you once said, a posterity of Cain, and one of 
Abel. Cain, in the- grand drama of humanity, is Opposi- 
tion. T'ori are descended from Adam by that line, into which 
the devil has continued to blow his flame, the first sparks 
of which were cast on Eve. Among the demons of this 
descent some appear, from time to time,' of terrible vigor, 
of vast organization, combining all human forces, and re- 
sembling those rampant animals of the desert whose life 
requires the great spaces in which they are found. These 
men are dangerous to society, as lions w’ould be dangerous 
in Normandy : they must have food ; they devour common 
men, and suck the gold of fools ; even their games are so 


218 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


perilous that they end by killing the poor dog of whom 
they make a companion, an idol. When God wills it, these 
mysterious beings are named Moses, Attila, Charlemagne, 
Robespierre, Napoleon ; but when he lets a generation of 
these gigantic instruments rust in the depths of ocean they 
are nothing more than Pugatcheff, Fouche, Louvel, and 
Carlos Herrera. Gifted with a mighty power over tender 
souls, they attract and knead them. ’T is grand, ’t is fine 
in its way; ’tis the poisonous plant with glowdng colors 
that entices children in a wood ; ’t is the poesy of Evil. 
Men like you should live in lairs and never leave them. 
You made me live within the circle of .this stupendous life,, 
and I have had my fill of existence. Therefore I withdraw 
my head from the Gordian knot of your policy to fasten it 
in the running noose of my cravat. * 

To repair my fault, I transmit to the attorney-general a 
formal retractation of my testimony. You will see to its 
being of service to you. 

In pursuance of my will you will receive, Monsieur I’abbe, 
the sums belonging to your Order which you spent, most 
imprudently, on me, in consequence of the paternal affection 
you have always shown me. 

‘Farewell, then, farewell, grandiose statue of Evil and cor- 
ruption ; farewell, you, who in the path of Good would have 
been greater than Ximenes, greater than Richelieu. You 
have kept your promises ; I find myself once more on the 
banks of the Charente, after owing to you the enchantments 
of a dream ; but, unfortunately, it is not the river of mine 
own country in which I w^as about to drown the peccadiDoes 
of my youth, — it is the Seine, and my pool is a cell in the 
Conciergerie. 

Do not regret me. My contempt for you is equal to my 
admiration. Lucien. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 219 

At one o’clock in the morning, when they came to 
remove Ihe body, Jacques Collin was found kneeling 
beside Lucien’s bed, the letter on the floor beside him, 
dropped, no doubt, as the suicide drops the pistol 
which has killed him ; but the miserable man was still 
holding the stiffened hand of him he had loved so well ; 
he held it pressed between his own clasped hands, and 
was praying God. 

When the}’ saw him thus, the jailers stopped for an 
instant ; he resembled one of those stone figures kneel- 
ing for eternit}’ on the tombs of the middle ages. The 
man, with eyes as clear as those of tigers, and rigid 
wdth an awful immobilit}', so impressed the minds of 
those men that the}’ asked him gently to rise. 

“Why?” he said, timidly. The audacious Trompe- 
la-Mort had become as humble as a little child. 

The director showed this sight to Monsieur de Charge- 
bosuf, who, filled with respect for such a sorrow, ex- 
plained to the prisoner Monsieur de Granville’s orders 
relating to the funeral services and the interment, adding 
that it was essential to transfer the body to Lucien’s 
home on the Quai Malaquais, where the clergy were 
then assembled to watch it for the rest of the night. 

“ I recognize his great soul in that,” said the con- 
vict, in a sad voice. “Tell him, monsieur, that he 
may count upon my gratitude. Yes, I am able to ren- 
der him gi-eat services. Do not forget those words ; 


220 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

they are, to him, of mucli importance. Ah ! monsieur, 
there come strange changes in the heart of a man when 
he has wept for seven hours over a child like that. 
I shall never see him again ! ’’ 

Looking once more at Lucien with the e3’es of a 
mother from whom the^^ are rending her son, Jacques 
Collin sank back upon himself. As he watched them 
take the body, so dreadful a moan escaped his breast 
that the porters hastened to be gone. 

The secretaiy of the attorn e3’-general and the director 
of the prison had alread3’ withdrawn from the painful 
sight. 

What had become of that iron nature in which de- 
cision and resolution equalled the glance of those eyes 
in rapidit3’ ; in whom thought and action sprang forth 
with a , single flash ; whose nerves, inured by three 
escapes, three periods at the galle3’s, had attained to 
the metallic strength of the nerves of savages? Iron 
yields to reiterated striking, or to a certain continu- 
ance of pressure ; its impenetrable molecules, purified 
1)3" man and made homogeneous, segregate, and, with- 
out being in fusion, the metal has not the same power 
of resistance. Blacksmiths, locksmiths, tool-makers, 
all men who work constantly in this metal, express tliat 
condition b3’ a technical word. “ The iron is retted,’’ 
the3" sa3", appropriating a term which belongs properl3" 
to flax or hemp, tlie fibre of which is disintegrated b3" 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 221 

retting. Well, the human soul, or, if 3’ou choose to- 
sa}’ so, the triple energy of body, heart, and mind, is 
found in a condition analogous to that of iron as the 
result of repeated shocks. It is then with men as it is 
with flax or iron: they are “retted.” Science, the 
law, and the public, attribute a hundred causes to some 
terrible catastrophe on a railwa}' by the rupture of an 
iron bar, as in that terrible example at Bellevue ; but 
no one pays attention to the true experts in this mat- 
ter, the smiths, who all emplo}' the same expression, 
“The iron was retted.” This danger cannot be fore- 
seen. The metal looks the same, be it disintegrating, 
or be it resistant. 

It is in this state that confessors and examining 
judges often find great criminals. The terrible emo- 
tions caused by the court of assizes and bj^ the “ toi- 
lette ” almost always bring even the strongest natures 
to what ma\' be called a dislocation of the nervous sys- 
tem. Confessions escape the lips till then most firmly 
closed ; the stoutest hearts give wa}’, and this — 
strange fact ! — at the moment when confession be- 
comes useless, when this sudden weakness merely tears 
from the guilty man the mask of innocence by which 
he disturbs the mind of justice, for that is always uneasy 
wlien the condemned man dies without confession. 

Napoleon experienced this dissolution of all human 
forces at Waterloo. 


222 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


III. 

THE PREAU OF THE CONCIERGERIE, WITH AN ESSAY PHIL- 
OSOPHIC, LINGUISTIC, AND LITERARY, ON THIEVES’ 
LATIN AND THIEVES. 

At eight in the morning, when the warder of the 
2)istoles entered the room where Jacques Collin was 
now confined, he found him pale and calm, like a 
man who had recovered strength through some violent 
determination. 

“ This is the hour for exercise,” said the jailer. 
“ You have been shut up for three days ; if you would 
like to get some air, and walk in the you can 

do so.” 

Jacques Collin, absorbed in his thoughts, taking no 
interest in himself, regarding himself as a garment 
without a body, as a rag, did not suspect the snare 
set for him b}* Bibi-Lupin, nor the vital consequences 
of his appearance in the preau. The unhappy man left 
his cell mechanically, and passed along the corridor 
which skirts the cells that are built into the cornice of 
the splendid arcades of the palace of the kings of 
France, on which rests the so-called gallery of Saint- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 223 

• 

Louis. This corridor joins that of the pistoles ; and it 
is a circumstance not unworth}^ of remark that the cell 
in which Louvel, the murderer of the Due de Beriy, 
was confined, is situated in the angle formed bj’ the 
junction of the two corridors. Under the pretty office 
in the Tour Bonbec is a corkscrew staircase bj’ which 
the prisoners in all these cells go and come to and from 
the preau. 

All accused persons, also indicted persons who are 
waiting for trial before the court of assizes, and those 
who have already appeared there, in short, all the pris- 
oners in the Conciergerie, except those in solitar}' con- 
finement, walk in this narrow unpaved space for several 
hours of the da}*, and more particularly in the early 
summer mornings. This yard, the antechamber to the 
scaffold or the galleys, leads to those institutions at 
one end, while at the other it is still connected with 
social existence through the gendarme, the office of 
the examining judge, and the court of assizes. It 
is even more petrifying to behold than the scaffold. 
The scaffold ma}" be a pedestal from which to rise 
to heaven ; but the preau is all the infamies of earth 
united, and with no outlet! 

T\\q preau is a x^reau, whether it be that of La Force, 
or Poissy, or Melun, or Sainte-Pelagie. Its facts are 
identical!}’ the same, even to the color of the walls, 
their height, and the space inclosed. This study of 


224 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

Parisian customs would be incomplete without a more 
exact description of this species of Pandemonium. 

Under the strong arches which support the Chamber 
of the Court of Appeals is (at the fourth arch) a stone 
which, it is said, served Saint-Louis as a table from 
which to distribute alms, but which in our day is used 
as a stand, at which are sold certain supplies to the 
prisoners. Therefore, as soon as the 'preau is opened in 
the morning, the latter all group themselves about this 
stone of luxuries sucli as brandy’, rum, and eatables. 

The first two arches on this side of the preau (which 
faces the magnificent Byzantine gallery, sole remains 
of the palace of Saint-Louis) are occupied by the parlor 
where prisoners and their lawyers ma}' confer. This 
parlor, placed at the end of the immense entrance hall 
of the Conciergerie and lighted from the preau by 
recessed windows high above the floor, has lately been 
supplied with other windows opening to the entrance- 
hall, so that the conferences which take place in that 
parlor ma}^ be watched. This innovation was rendered 
necessary by the cajoleries practised by certain pretty 
women on their legal defenders. In this room take 
place such interviews as police regulations permit be- 
tween prisoners and their friends. 

We can now imagine what the must be to the 

two hundred prisoners of the Conciergerie : it is their 
garden, — a garden without trees, or earth, or flowers, 


The Last Imarnation of Vautrin. 225 

blit still, their place of relaxation, their preau. The 
gratings of the parlor, and the stone of Saint-Louis 
constitute their only possible communication with the 
outer world. 

The moments spent in the preau are the only ones dur- 
ing which the prisoners can have fresh air and compan}". 
In other prisons the men are collected in workshops, 
but in the Conciergerie thej^ are not allowed any occu- 
pation, unless they are in the 2 ^istoles; and there, the 
drama of the court of assizes usually preoccupies their 
mind, for they are only placed there while undergoing 
examination or awaiting sentence. 

This yard presents a horrifying spectacle ; it cannot 
be imagined, — it must be seen. In the first place, we 
find, in a space about one hundred and thirfy feet long 
b3' one hundred feet wide, over one hundred individuals 
either suspected or indicted criminals, who are therefore 
not the elite of society. These miserable creatures, 
who, for the most part, belong to the lowest classes, 
are badfy clothed and their countenances are ignoble or 
shocking ; a criminal from the upper social classes is 
happily seldom seen here. Peculation, forgery’, or 
fraudulent bankruptcy, the only crimes which would 
bring the upper classes to the Conciergerie are confined 
in the pistoles^ and such prisoners seldom or never 
choose to leave their cells. 

This place of exercise, enclosed by noble, and for- 
15 


226 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

midable black walls with fortified towers on the qna3% 
watched b}’ careful keepers, and occupied b}’ a tlirong 
of ignoble criminals, all distrustful of one another, is 
sad enough to glance at superficialh’, but it is terri- 
fying when 3’ou find 3’ourself the centre of looks of 
hatred, curiosity, despair, as 3’oa stand face to face 
with those dishonored beings. No jo3’ there ! all is 
gloom3^, the place and its inhabitants ; all is silent, 
walls and consciences. All is peril to these unfortu- 
nates ; the3^ dare not trust each other, — unless it be 
through friendships as sinister as the galleys of which 
the3’ are the product. The police, known to be ever 
near, corrupt the atmosphere and poison all things to 
their minds, even the pressure of a fellow-convict’s 
hand. The criminal who meets an accomplice is igno- 
rant whether the latter has not confessed in secret to 
escape his own penalt3\ This lack of securit3^, this 
fear of the mouton spoils the already too treacherous lib- 
erty- of the^rea?^.^ In prison argot, the mouton [sheep] 

1 The difficulty of rendering this chapter in English is great. 
It cannot be translated. The following method is therefore em- 
ployed, The word argot is left in the French, because the word, 
‘“slang,” does not do it justice; in the present connection “thieves’ 
latin,” is its best equivalent. Argot is a language of expression ; 
keenly intelligent, full of meaning and experience. Where its 
meaning can be given by a literal, word-for-word translation into 
English, this has been done. In other places the French words 
have been left. No attempt has been made to render French 
argot in its equivalent of English slang. A dictionary of argot is 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 227 

is a sp3’, who appears there under the accusation of 
some dangerous crime, and whose aim it is to be taken 
for an ami [friend]. The word ami signifies in argot 
a robber emeritus, a consummate thief, who has 
long broken with societ}’, who means to be a thief all 
his life, and to remain faithful under all circumstances 
to the laws of the haute pegre. Pegre is the caste of 
thieves. It is divided into two classes, the haute and 
the hasse plgre. The first is an association of the 
oldest and most accomplished criminals ; the}’ commit 
none but great robberies and despise ordinary thieves. 

Crime and madness have a certain similitude. Ob- 
serving prisoners of the Conciergerie in the preau^ and 
observing patients in the garden of an insane asylum, 
are much the same thing. They all avoid each other as 
they walk about ; they cast glances that are strange or 
ferocious, according to the thoughts in their minds at 
the moment, but never gay or earnest ; they either 
know or they fear one another. The expectation of 
a conviction, anxiety, possibly remorse, give to these 
denizens of a preau the uneasy, haggard look of mad- 
men. Consummate criminals alone have an assured 
manner which resembles the tranquillity of an honest 
life and the sincerity of a pure conscience. 

very amusing and instructive reading ; such as the “ Dictionnaire 
Historique d’Argot,” par M. Loredan Larchey, derniere edition, 
E. Dentu, Paris. — Tr. 


228 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

A man of the middle and upper classes being an 
exception (shame retaining in their cells those whom 
crime has sent there), it follows that the occupants of 
\X\Qipreau are usually dressed as working-men. Blouses, 
linen caps, and velveteen jackets predominate. These 
coarse or dirty costumes, in keeping with the common 
or threatening faces and the brutal manners (somewhat 
cowed, perhaps, by the gloom}* thoughts that assail all 
prisoners, even the silence of the place), do their share 
in striking terror or disgust to the mind of the visitor 
for whom some high influence has obtained the very 
rare privilege of studying the Conciergerie on the spot. 

Just as the sight of a museum of anatomy, where 
loathsome diseases are represented in wax, has brought 
young men to resolutions of chastit}*, so the sight of 
the Conciergerie and the aspect of the preau, swarming 
with guests doomed to the scaffold, the galleys, or 
some other degrading punishment, inspires fear of 
human justice in those who do not dread divine jus- 
tice however loudly it may speak to the conscience. 
Such persons issue from that sight honest men, and 
stay so for a long time. 

As several of the criminals in the preau at the mo- 
ment when Jacques Collin came down to it are the 
actors in a crucial scene in Trompe-la-Mort’s life, it is 
not superfluous to describe a few of the principal figures 
of this terrible assemblage. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


229 


There, as eveiywhere that men congregate, there, 
as in schools and colleges, reigns physical force, and 
mental and moral force. There, too, as at the galleys, 
criminality forms the aristocrac3^ He whose head is in 
danger takes precedence of all the rest. The preau, as 
we can readily believe, is the criminal’s law-school ; it 
is even a court where cases are tried. An occasional 
amusement consists in acting over again a drama of 
the court of assizes, with judge and jury, an official of 
the State, and lawyers, ending with a verdict on the 
case. This horrible farce is almost always played on 
the occasion of a celebrated crime. At the present 
moment a great criminal trial was going on before the 
court of assizes, — namely, the shocking murder of a 
couple named Crottat, formerly farmers, the father and 
mother of the notary of that name, who were hoarding, 
as this horrible affair proved, over eight hundred thou- 
sand francs in gold. 

One of the persons concerned in this two-fold mur- 
der was the celebrated Dannepont, otherwise called La 
Pouraille, a released galley-slave, who for the last five 
years had escaped the most active police search for 
fresh crimes, thanks to seven or eight aliases, and as 
many different lives. The disguises of this villain 
were so perfect that he even underwent, without dis- 
covery, two years’ imprisonment in the name of Del- 
souq, one of his pupils, a celebrated thief, who never, 


230 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

in his many crimes, got beyond the jurisdiction of the 
correctional police. La Pouraille was now, five 3ears 
after his release from the galleys, at his third murder. 
The certaint}" of his condemnation to death, not less 
than his reputed possession of enormous booty, made 
this man an object of awe and admiration to the other 
prisoners ; for not one penny of tlie stolen money had 
been recovered. The reader will doubtless remember, 
in spite of the public events of Jul}’, 1830, the excite- 
ment caused in Paris b}’ this bold crime, comparable 
onh' to the theft of the coins of the Bibliotheqne, — in 
public estimation, at least, for the unfortunate tendenc}' 
of our day is to measure crime b}- the amount of the 
mone}" stolen. 

La Pouraille, a spare and lean little man, with a 
weasel face, about forty-five years of age, a celebrity 
in each of the three galleys which he had inhabited 
successively from the time he was nineteen years old, 
knew Jacques Collin intimately, and we shall presently 
explain why. Transferred from La Force to the Con- 
ciergerie with La Pouraille on the previous da}’ were 
two other former galley-slaves, who had instanth’ rec- 
ognized and made known in the preau the dangerous 
royalty of this ami foredoomed to the scaffold. One of 
these convicts, a released galle^’-slave named Selerier, 
alias I’Auvergnat, le Pere Ralleau, le Rouleur, but 
known to the society of the haute pegre as Fil-de-Soie, 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 231 

a nickname due to the cleverness with which he could 
slii) out of the dangers of his profession, w^as also one 
of Trompe-la-Mort’s former comrades. But Trompe-la- 
Mort had suspected him of playing a double part, of 
being in the counsels of the haute pegre and also in the 
employ of the police, so that he attributed his own 
arrest in 1819, at the Maison Vauquer, to this man. 
(See Pere Goriot.) Selerier, whom we will call Fil- 
de-Soie, as we shall call Dannepont La Pouraille, was 
implicated in certain robberies, in which, however, no 
blood had been shed ; he was about, in all probabilit}*, 
to be returned to the galleys on a twenty years’ sen- 
tence. The third convict, named Riganson, formed, 
with his concubine, called La Biffe, one of the most 
redoubtable households of the haute pegre. Riganson, 
whose relations with law and justice had been delicate 
from his earliest jears, was commonly’ known as Le 
Biffon. Le Bilfon was the male of La Biffe. 

A digression is here necessaiy; for Jacques Collin’s 
entrance into the preau^ his appearance in the midst 
of his enemies, so cleverly arranged b}^ Bibi-Lupin at 
the instigation of the examining-judge, and the curious 
scenes which came of it, would be incomprehensible to 
the reader without certain explanations on the world 
of the galle 3 ’S, its laws, its customs, — above all, its lan- 
guage, the dreadful poesy of which is an indispensable 
feature of this portion of our tale. First, therefore, a 


232 The Last Incarnation of Vautrln. 

few words on the language of sharpers, swindlers, 
thieves, and murderers, called argot, which literature 
has emplo3^ed of late with such success that several 
words of this strange vocabulaiy have been heard 
from the ros}’ lips of beautiful women, beneath silken 
curtains, delighting the ears of princes, more than one 
of whom has owned himself floue (cheated at cards). 
Let us say here, perhaps to the astonishment of man^s 
that there is no language more energetic, more highly 
colored, than that of the subterranean world, which, 
from the origin of empires and chief cities, ferments in 
cellars, abj'srnal depths, the “third-floor-under,” — to 
borrow from dramatic art a livel}" and striking ex- 
pression. Is not all the world a stage? The “third- 
floor-under” is the lowest cellar beneath the boards of 
the Opera-house, where they put awa\' machineiy, lad- 
ders, apparitions, and the devils who vomit hell. 

Each word of this language presents an image of 
some kind, — brutal, ingenious, or terrible. Men do 
not sleep in argot, they pionce. Remark with what 
precision that word expresses the peculiar sleep of the 
hunted, weary, defiant beast called robber; who, the 
instant he is in safet}’, falls into the depths of needed 
sleep, but always under the wings of the suspicion that 
hovers over him. Horrible sleep ! — like that of the wild 
animal that slumbers and snores while its ears are ever 
prudentlj" awake. 


233 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

All is descriptive in this idiom. Woman is a largue 
(a breeze for sails). And what poesy ! A straw is la 
jAume (the feather) of Beauce^ Beauce being rich in 
cereals. Midnight is rendered hy the paraphrase, 
Douze plombes crossent (twelve leads strike) ; the words 
make one shudder ! Mincer une cambriole (rinse out 
a room), means to plunder it. How inferior the ex- 
pression, “go to bed,” compared with se piausser (new- 
skin one’s self). What liveliness of comparison, what 
imagery ! Dominos^ teeth ; jouer des dominos^ eat in 
haste like one pursued; oignon^ onion, tears; mouche^ 
fly, police-spy ; boussole, compass, brains ; pincette^ 
tongs, legs ; foiirchette, fork, fingers. Argot goes 
on forever! It follows civilization; it keeps at its 
heels ; it enriches itself with every new invention. 
Potatoes, brought into use by Louis XVI., and Par- 
mentier, the famous agriculturist (the potato was first 
called in France “la parrnentiere ”), were instantly 
argotized as “ pigs’ oranges.” Paper is faffe^ from the 
sound when 3'ou touch it. Bank-bills were invented, 
and the galle3's at once called them fajiots garates^ 
from Garat, the name of the cashier who signed them. 
Fafiot! can’t you hear the rustle of the crisp paper? 
The thousand-franc note is a fafiot mdle ; the five-hun- 
dred-franc note, fi fafiot femelle. You may be sure that 
the galleys will rebaptize all things with fantastic but 
expressive names. 


234 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

In 1790 Doctor Guillotin invented, for the benefit 
of humanit}’, the expediting piece of machiner}" which 
solves all problems suggested by the penalty of death, 
and bears his name. No sooner had the convicts and 
ex-galle 3 '-slaves survej’ed that machine, standing on the 
monarchial confines of the old system of justice and 
the frontiers of the new, than they named it the Abbaye 
de Monte-a- Regret^ — abbey, separation from the world ; 
regret, as you mount the steps to it. Then they studied 
the angle at which the steel blade made its stroke, and 
called its action /attcAer, to mow. When we remember 
that the galleys always speak of themselves as le pre 
(the field) it reall}" seems as if those who concern them- 
selves with the science of language ought to bow be- 
fore the creation of these horrible vocables^ as Charles 
Nodier would have called them. 

We must recognize, moreover, the great antiquit}’' 
of argot. One tenth of it are words of the lingua 
romana, another tenth the old Gallic language of 
Rabelais. Effondrer, break open ; otolondrer^ bore ; 
aubert^ silver, — that is, money ; gironde^ beautiful 
(the name of a river in the langue d’Oc) ; fouillousse^ 
pocket, — all belong to the language of the fourteenth 
and fifteenth centuries. Affe^ for life, is of the high- 
est antiquity. From troubler Vaffe comes the word 
ajfreux^ — the meaning of which is “ that which 
troubles life.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


235 


At least one hundred words of argot belong to the 
language of Panurge, who, in the Rabelaisian work, 
sj’mbolizes the people, — the name being composed of 
two Greek words, which mean, “he wdio does all.” 
But lo ! science changes the whole face of civilization. 
Railroads are built, and immediately argot is ready 
wdth their name, le roulant vif the burning roller. 

The name of the head, while it is still upon their 
shoulders, sorhonne^ dates from the 13th century, 
and indicates the antique source of this language 
in the oldest romances, those of Cervantes, Aretino, 
and the Italian tiovelU. In all ages, la the 

prostitute, the heroine of so many of the old roman- 
ces, was the protectress, companion, and comfort of the 
sharper, the thief, the swindler, the blackleg. Prosti- 
tution and robbeiy are two living protestations, male 
and female, of the natural state against the social state. 
Consequent!}’ philosophers, new-fangled theorists of the 
present da}’, humanitarians, who have at their tail com- 
munists and Foiirierites, will bring up, before they 
know it, at two barriers, — theft and prostitution. The 
thief does n’t discuss in sophistical books questions of 
property, heredity, and social guarantees ; he ignores 
all that. To him, robbery is coming into possession of 
his own. He does n’t discuss marriage, nor find fault 
with it, nor ask it, as in printed utopias, for that mutual 
agreement, that lasting alliance of souls, which can’t be 


236 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

generalized ; he couples himself with a woman of his 
species by chains which are constantl}^ tightened b}’ the 
hammer of necessity. Modern theorists write philan- 
thropic novels, hazy, mudd}’, nebulous, but the robber 
goes to work ; he is as clear as a fact, as logical as a 
knock-down blow. And what a capacity he has ! ” 
Another observation. The world of thieves, prosti- 
tutes, and murderers, the galleys and the prisons, have 
a population of between sixt}^ and eighty thousand in- 
dividuals, male and female. This world cannot be 
omitted in any picture of manners and customs, or any 
truthful reproduction of our social condition. Civil 
oflicials, the gendarmerie, and the police make a force 
of employes nearl}- equal in numbers to the dangerous 
classes. Is not this a singular fact? This antagonism 
of those who search for and those who avoid each other 
reciprocal!}’, constitutes a vast and perpetual duel which 
is eminently dramatic. It is with robbery and prosti- 
tution as it is with theatrical life, the police, the priest- 
hood and the gendarmerie. In those six conditions, 
the individual takes on a special and indelible char- 
acterization. He can no longer be his individual self. 
The stigmata of the divine ministry are irremovable ; 
so are the signs of a military life. Other professions 
in which there are strong oppositions, contradictions 
to civilization, show the same thing. These strange, 
fantastic, violent, or sui generis diagnostics make the 


The Last IncarnatioR of Vautrin. 237 

prostitute, the thief, the murderer, the ex-couvict, so 
easy to recognize that the}’ are to their enemies, the police 
spy and the gendarme, what the game is to the hunter ; 
the}’ have a gait, manner, and complexion, looks, color 
and smell of their own, in short, infallible characteris- 
tics. Hence, that deep science of disguises, which the 
celebrities of the galleys find it necessary to acquire. 

One word more on the construction of this under- 
world, which the abolition of branding, the lessening 
of penalties, and the stupid indulgence of juries now 
render menacing. In fact, in twenty years from now, 
Paris will be surrounded by an army of forty thousand 
ex-convicts. The department of the Seine, with its 
fifteen hundred thousand inhabitants, is the only part 
of France where these criminals can hide themselves. 
Paris is to them what the virgin forest is to wild beasts. 

The haute p^gre, which is the faubourg Saint- 
Germain, the aristocracy of this world, resolved itself 
in 1816, as the result of a Peace which put the future 
of so many lives in question, into an association called 
the Orands Fanandels^ in which were gathered the 
most celebrated leaders of the band, and some other 
bold minds then without any means whatever of exis- 
tence. The word fanandels means brothers, friends, 
comrades. All thieves, convicts, and prisoners are 
fanandels. The Grands Fanandels, the cream of the 
haute p^gre, constituted for twenty years or more the 


238 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Court of Appeals, the Institute, and the Chamber of 
peers of the people of their world. The Grands Fan- 
andels all had their private means ; capital was in 
common, but their habits and ways were separate. 
They all knew one another, and each was bound 
to aid the rest in difficult}’. All were above the wiles 
and seductions of the police ; they had their own 
charter, their own laws, their passwords and signs of 
recognition. The dukes and peers of the galleys 
formed, between 1815 and 1819, the famous society of 
the Dix Mille (the Ten Thousand, see “ Pere Goriot”), 
thus named from the solemn agreement entered into, 
never to undertake any affair in which there was less 
than ten thousand francs to be made. At the time of 
which we write, that is, in 1827 and 1830, sketches of 
this society, its forces, the names of its members, etc., 
were being published by one of the celebrities of the 
detective police. In those “ Memoirs,” we find, with 
something like terror, the record of an army of great 
capacities, in men and women so formidable, so able, 
often so lucky, that criminals like Levy, Pastourel, Col- 
longe, Chimaux, men between fifty and sixty years of 
age, are there stated as having been in revolt against 
society from their earliest childhood. What an avowal 
of impotence in law and justice is the mere existence 
of thieves and robbers of that age I 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


239 


IV. 

HIS MAJESTY THE DAB. 

Jacques Collin was the treasurer, not onl}^ of the 
society of the Dix Jllille^ but also of the Grands 
Fanandels^ the heroes of the galleys. Competent 
authorities agree that the convicts at the gallej's have 
property. This singular state of things is explainable. 
The proceeds of a robbeiy are never recovered except 
under peculiar circumstances. Condemned robbers, un- 
able to take the mone}’ with them, are forced to have 
recourse to the honor and capacit}’ of so,me ex-convict, 
in whose hands they place their property’, as society at 
large confides in a banking-house. 

Formerl}’, Bibi-Lupin, chief of the detective police 
for the last ten .years, had been a member of the aris- 
tocrac}’ of the Grands Fanandels. His treacherj’ was 
caused by a wound to his vanit}’. Trompe-la-Mort, 
with his keen intelligence and prodigious force of char- 
acter, was constanth" preferred to him. Hence the 
unceasing rancor of his pursuit, as chief of the detec- 
tive police, against Jacques Collin. Hence, also, came 
certain compromises between Bipi-Lupin and his former 


240 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

comrades, which the authorities about this time were 
beginning to suspect. 

So, in his desire for vengeance, to which the exam- 
ining judge had given full play b}' the order to estab- 
lish, if possible, the identitj^ of Jacques Collin, the 
chief of the detectives had ver^^ judiciousl}’ selected 
his men when he arranged to confront the Spanish 
priest with La Pouraille, Fil-de-Soie, and Le Biffon ; 
for La Pouraille and Fil-de-Soie belonged to the Vix 
Mille^ and Le Biffon was a Grand Fanandel. 

La Biffe, the terrible largue of Le Biffon, who to this 
day has managed to escape all the efforts of the police, 
thanks to her abilitj^ in disguising herself as a well-bred 
woman, was, of course, at libert}'. This woman, who 
knows perfectl}’ well how to pla 3 ’ the characters of wo- 
men of rank, keeps a carriage and servants. A species 
of Jacques Collin in petticoats, she is the only woman 
comparable to Asia, Jacques Collin’s right arm. Every 
hero of the galle 3 ’s has his devoted mate. Judicial 
records and secret chronicles will tell you this. No 
passion of a virtuous woman, not even that which a 
religious nature feels for a confessor, can surpass the 
attachment of the mistress who shares the peril of 
these great criminals. Such passions are nearly always 
the originating cause, in the men, of their most daring 
enterprises, and of their murders. Even the necessity 
of living, and living well, is small in comparison with 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 241 

the desire these women inspire in their generous Medors 
to give them jewels, gowns, and especially — for they 
are always greedy — choice food. The girl desires a 
shawl, the lover steals it ; and she thinks the theft a 
proof of love. That is how men are frequently led into 
crime ; if we examine the human heart with a micro- 
scope, we shall see that this proceeds from a primitive 
sentiment in the nature of man. 

Thus it is that the adoration of their mistresses is 
acquired by criminals, the terror of society. It is 
female devotion, crouching faithfully at the doors of 
prisons, perpetually emplo3’ed in thwarting the wiles 
of the police or the examining judges, the incorruptible 
guardian of the blackest secrets, — which makes so 
man}’ criminal cases obscure and, in fact, impenetrable. 
There lies the strength, and also the weakness, of the 
criminal. In the language of these women, avoir de la 
yrohite (to be honest) means not to fail in any dut}’ to 
that attachment ; to give all their money to the men 
enflacque (imprisoned) ; to watch over their safet}’ and 
comfort ; to keep ever}’ species of faith with them ; and 
to undertake for them all possible things. The w’orst 
and most dishonoring insult one of these w'omen can 
cast upon another is to accuse her of infidelity toward 
a lover who is serve (locked up). A girl, in such a 
case, is looked upon as heartless. 

La Pouraille was passionately attached to a woman, 


16 


242 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

as we shall presently see. Fil-de-Soie, a philosophical 
egotist, who robbed to procure a fortune, was very like 
Paccard, Jacques Collin’s henchman, who had run away 
with Prudence Servien and seven hundred and fift}' 
thousand francs. He had no affections ; he despised 
women, and loved only himself. As for Le Biffon, he 
derived his name, as we have already said, from his 
attachment to La Biffe. These three illustrious mem- 
bers of the haute pegre had a reckoning to demand of 
Jacques Collin, though the accounts between them were 
very difficult to establish clearly. 

The treasurer alone knew how many of the partners 
survived, and what was the share of each in the capital 
placed in his hands. The mortality peculiar to his 
clients may have entered into Trompe-la-Mort’s calcu- 
lations when he resolved to manger la grenoiiille (eat 
the frog), dissipate the sum intrusted to him on Lucien. 
By keeping out of sight of his former companions and of 
the police for several years, Jacques Collin had almost 
a certainty of having inherited, according to the laws 
of the Grands Fanandels, the property of at least two- 
thirds of his clients. Besides, he could easily allege 
that payments had been made on behalf of i\iQfanan~ 
dels fauches. No register existed on which to accuse 
this hero of the Grands Fanandels. Absolute trust had 
been placed in him of necessity, for the hunted wild- 
beast life led by such beings forces them to a trustful- 


243 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

} 

ness of the utmost delicac}". Jacques Collin could 
probabl}" liquidate all demands on the three hundred 
thousand francs placed in his hands with less than a 
hundred thousand. At the present moment, as we have 
already seen, La Pouraille, one of Jacques Collin’s cred- 
itors, had only ninety days to live. Provided with other 
sums no doubt much larger than that in Trompe-la- 
Mort’s care, he was little likelj" to be exacting. 

One of the infallible diagnostics b}' which directors of 
prisons and their agents, the police, and even the exam- 
ining-magistrates recognize a cheval-de-retour (returned 
post-horse), that is, one who has alread}' eaten gour- 
ganes (a species of bean, on which the convicts at the 
galleys are fed), is his knowledge of prison wa3’s ; habit- 
ual criminals are naturall}' aware of such usages ; they 
are at home, as w'e may sa}^, and nothing surprises them. 

Up to this time Jacques Collin, keeping watch against 
himself, had played his part of innocent foreigner 
admirably, both at La Force, and in the Conciergerie. 
But now, cast-down with sorrow, crushed by his double 
death, for during that fatal night he had died twice, 
Jacques Collin no longer remembered to be other than 
himself. The jailer was amazed not to be obliged to 
tell a Spanish priest the way to the preatc. This great 
actor had so thoroughly forgotten his part, that he 
went down the spiral staircase of the Bonbec tower, 
like an inmate of the Conciergerie. 


244 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Bibi-Lupiii is right,” thought the jailer; “ he is a 
cheval-de-retour ; it must be Jacques Collin.” 

At the moment when Jacques Collin appeared in the 
sort of frame made for his figure by the casing of the 
tower door the prisoners had finished making their pur- 
chases from Saint-Louis’ table, so-called, and were dis- 
persed about the preau^ always too small for them. 
The new prisoner was therefore seen by all the others 
at once, with the unequalled rapidity and precision of 
the glance of convicts, who are in a preau like spiders 
in the centre of their webs. This comparison is mathe- 
matically exact ; for the eye being limited on all sides by 
black and lofty walls, the prisoners see at all moments, 
without even looking at them, the gate through which 
the jailers pass, the windows of the parlor, and the 
door to the staircase of the Bonbec Tower. In the 
isolation of a prisoner’s life, everything is an event to 
him, and takes hold of his mind. His ennui, compara- 
ble to that of a tiger at the Jardin des Plantes, 
increases his power of attention tenfold. It is not un- 
necessary to mention here that Jacques Collin, dressed 
like an ecclesiastic who is not veiy rigid in the matter 
of apparel, wore black trousers and a black waistcoat, 
shoes with silver buckles, black stockings, and a dark- 
brown surtout coat, the cut of which will always betray 
the priest, no matter wliat he does, or where he is, 
especially when these indications are enforced by the 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 245 

i 

characteristic manner in which the hair is cut. Jacques 
Collin wore a wig superlatively ecclesiastical, and won- 
derfully natural. 

“ Tiens I tiens/” said La Pouraille to Le Biffon, — 
“ a bad sign ! a sanglier (wild-boar, priest) ! How did 
he get here ? ” 

“ It is one of their t7’ucs (dodges) ; that’ s a cuisinier 
(spy) of a new kind,” replied Fil-de-Soie ; some 
marcha?id de lacets (gendarme, allusion to handcuffs) 
disguised, who is after his business.” 

The gendarme has three different names in argot : 
when in pursuit of a criminal, he is a marchand de 
lacets (dealer in strings of an}’ kind) ; when he escorts 
a prisoner, he is a hirondelle de la Gr^ve (swallow of 
the place of execution) ; when he conducts him to the 
scaffold, he is the hussard de la guillotine. 

To finish this picture of the preau it is, perhaps, 
necessary to sketch in a few words the two other 
fanandels whom we have already mentioned. Selerier, 
alias the Auvergnat, P^re Ralleau, Le Rouleur, Fil-de- 
Soie (he had, in fact, thirty names and as many pass- 
ports) will here be designated by the latter nickname, 
the only one bestowed upon him by the haute plgre. 
This profound philosopher, who saw a gendarme in the 
priest, was a lively fellow about five feet four inches in 
height, whose muscles stood out in a singular manner. 
Beneath an enormous head, he flashed flames from his 


246 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

little ej’es, which were covered (like those of a bird of 
pre}’), with gray lids, hard and metallic. At first sight 
he resembled a wolf, from the width of his jaws, which 
were vigorously and massively outlined ; but all that 
this resemblance implied of cruelty, even of ferocit}’, 
was counterbalanced by the artfulness and vivacit 3 ' of 
his features, which were deeply pitted with the small- 
pox. The edges of each scar, clean-cut, had something 
•piquante about them. Sarcastic jests without num- 
ber were written there. The life of criminals, which 
means hunger and thirst, and nights passed in bivou- 
acking on quays, and banks, under bridges, or in the 
streets, the orgies of strong liquors with which some 
triumph is celebrated, had laid upon this man’s face a 
sort of couch of varnish. If Fil-de-Soie had shown him- 
self exactly as he was, any gendarme or agent of police 
would have recognized his prey at thirty paces ; but 
he rivalled Jacques Collin in the art of d^^eing or paint- 
ing his person and in making up his dress. At this 
moment, Fil-de-Soie, carelessly arrayed, like all great 
actors when not upon the stage, was wearing a sort 
of hunting jacket, — to which buttons were lackino-, 
while the ragged buttonholes disclosed the white of the 
lining, — a pair of shabby green slippers, trousers of 
nankeen now faded into gray, and on his head a cap 
without a visor, beneath which appeared the corners 
of a Madras handkerchief, much torn and faded. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


247 


Le Biffon, when side by side with Fil-de-Soie, pre- 
sented a marked contrast to him. This celebrated 
thief, wlio was short, stout, fat, active, with a livid 
skin, a sunken black eye, clothes like a cook, and 
two bowlegs, alarmed beholders b}' a countenance in 
which predominated all the characteristics peculiar to 
the organization of carnivorous animals. 

Fil-de-Soie and Le Biffon were pajdng court to La 
Pouraille, who no longer retained any hope of life. He 
knew very well that he should be tried, condemned and 
executed within four months ; for which reason Fil-de- 
Soie and Le Biffon called him by no other name than 
Le Chanoine^ meaning the Chanoine of the Abba3’e de 
Monte-a-Regret. It can readil}^ be imagined how Fil- 
de-Soie and Le Biffon cajoled La Pourraille. The lat- 
ter had buried two hundred and fiftj’ thousand francs 
in gold, his share of the boot}^ taken fi'om the house 
of the -murdered Crottats. What a magnificent bequest 
to leave to two fanandels, although the pair were cer- 
tain to be returned to the galley's within a month. 
They were expecting sentence (for robbeiy, with “ ag- 
gravated circumstances ”) to fifteen j^ears at the galleys, 
in addition to ten remaining years of a former sentence 
which they had taken the libert}^ to interrupt. So, al- 
though the one had twentj’-two years and the other, 
twentj’-six 3'ears of hard labor to do, the3’ both hoped 
to escape and to find La Pouraille’s hidden gold. But 


248 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

the hero of the Dix Mille kept his secret ; he thought 
it useless to reveal the information until he was ac- 
tually sentenced. Belonging to the highest aristocracy 
of the galleys, he had not betrayed his accomplices. 
His character was well-known ; and Monsieur Popinot, 
the examining judge in this dreadful affair, had ex- 
tracted nothing from him. 

The terrible triumvirate were standing at the upper 
end of the preaiiy that is, directly under the pistoles. 
Fil-de-Soie was ending , certain instructions to a 3 ^oung 
man, arrested for his first crime and considering him- 
self sure of a ten years’ sentence, who was asking for 
information about the three pres (galleys). 

“ Well, m}^ little fellow,” Fil-de-Soie was saying, sen- 
tentioush’, at the moment when Jacques Collin ap- 
peared, ‘^there’s only one difference betw'een Brest, 
Toulon, and Rochefort, if you want to know it.” 

“ Tell me,” said the 3 ’oung man, with the cmiosity 
of a novice. 

This youth, the son of a famil}" of rank, and accused 
of forgery, had come down to t\iQ preau from the ad- 
joining pistole to that of Lucien. 

“ My lad,” continued Fil-de-Soie, “ at Brest you are 
sure of finding gourganes at the third spoonful when 
you dip into the bucket ; at Toulon you won’t get ’em 
till the fifth ; and at Rochefort no one gets any unless 
he’s an ancieii.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 249 

Having spoken, that profound philosopher moved 
away to rejoin La Pouraille and Le Biffon, who, greatl}’ 
puzzled b}’ the sanglier^ began to walk down the preau^ 
while Jacques Collin, absorbed in his grief, walked up 
it. Filled with terrible thoughts, the thoughts of a 
fallen emperor, Trompe-la-Mort did not notice that 
he was the centre of all eyes and the object of general 
attention. He walked slowly, gazing before him at 
the fatal window where Lucien had hanged himself. 
None of the prisoners knew of this event, for Lucien’s 
neighbor, from motives which we shall learn presently, 
had said nothing about it. The three fanandels walked 
abreast, intending to bar the way to the priest. 

“ That’s not a sanglierf said La Pouraille to Fil-de- 
Soie, “ he ’s a cheval-de-retour. See how he drags the 
right ! ” 

It is necessaiy to explain here, to such readers as 
have never had a fane*}' to visit the galleys, that each 
convict is coupled to another (always a young and an 
old one together) by a chain. The weight of this chain, 
riveted to a ring worn just above the ankle, is such 
that by the end of the first year it has given a pecu- 
liar and life-long gait to the wearer. Obliged to send 
more force into one leg than into the other, in order to 
draw the manicle (that is the name the galleys give to 
this iron), the convict contracts the habit of that effort. 
Later, when he no longer wears his chain, he is like a 


250 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

man whose leg is amputated who still feels the missing 
limb ; the gallej’-slave feels his manicle, and never gets 
rid entirely of the gait it gives him. He “drags the 
right,” as the police term is. This diagnostic, known to 
convicts as it is to the police, though it ma}’ not cause 
the recognition of a comrade, certainly completes it. 

In Trompe-la-Mort, eight years having elapsed since 
his last escape from the galleys, this peculiar motion 
was a good deal lessened ; but on this occasion he 
walked with so slow and solemn a step, as the result 
of his absorbing meditation, that, slight as the defect 
was, it could not fail to strike so practised an ej'e as 
that of La Pouraille. Moreover, convicts at the gal- 
leys, being forever in presence of one another, and 
having none but themselves to observe, have so stud- 
ied the countenance of their kind that they can rec- 
ognize certain habits which escape the knowledge of 
their sj^stematic enemies, spies, gendarmes, and com- 
missaries of police. It was thus to a slight twitching 
of the maxillary muscles of the left cheek, recognized 
by a convict who was sent to a review of the Legion 
of the Seine, that the lieutenant-colonel of the briofade, 
the famous Coignard, owed his arrest ; for, in spite of 
Bibi-Lupin’s assurances, the police were afraid to be- 
lieve in the identity of Comte Pontis de Sainte-Helene, 
with so great a criminal. 

“That is our ddb (master),” said Fil-de-Soie, after 


The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 251 

receiving from Jacques Collin the abstracted glance 
which men engulfed in despair cast upon all about 
them. 

‘‘Faith! j^es, that is Trompe-la-Mort,” said Le 
Biffon, rubbing his hands. “Yes, that’s his figure, 
his cut. But what has he done to himself? He does n’t 
seem the same man.” 

“Oh, I see what he is after!” cried Fil-de-Soie. 
“ He has a plan ; he wants to see Theodore before 
they execute him.” 

“ So they are going to terror (earth, execute) that 
young one ! ” said La Pouraille. “ Prett}^ boj' ! what 
a hand ! what hair ! A great loss to society ! ” 

“ Yes, Theodore Calvi morfile (eats) his last mouth- 
ful to-da}",” said Le Biffon. “ Ah ! his largues must be 
crying their ej'es out, for they loved him well, the little 
beggar ! ” 

“ So here you are, old fellow ! ” said La Pouraille to 
Jacques Collin. 

And in concert with his two acolytes, between whom 
he was w^alking arm in arm, he barred the way of the 
new-comer. 

“ Oh, ddb ! why did you make 3 ’ourself a sanglier? ” 
added La Pouraille. 

“ They say you have poisse nos philippes (filched 
' our five-franc pieces),” said Le Biffon, with a threat- 
ening air. 


252 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Do 3 ’ou mean to abouler da carle (give back the 
mone 3 " ; carle from carolus, mone}^ struck under King 
Charles VIIL),” demanded Fil-de-Soie. 

These three interrogations went off like pistol-shots. 

“ Do not ridicule a poor priest brought here by mis- 
take,” replied Jacques Collin, who instantly recognized 
his former comrades. 

“ That’s the son de son grelot (sound of his rattle, 
speech), if it is n’t his frimoiisse (face),” said La Pou- 
raille, putting his hand on Jacques Collin’s shoulder. 

This action and the looks of his three comrades 
brought the ddb violentl}’ out of his dejection, and re- 
stored him to a sense of actual life ; for during this 
fatal night he had roamed the spiritual and infinite 
worlds of the soul’s consciousness in search of some 
new existence. 

“ JTe fais pas du ragoM sur ton ddb (Don’t rouse 
suspicions on 3 ’our master),” said Jacques Collin, in a 
hollow, threatening voice, which was not unlike the 
smothered growl of a lion. “ La raille (the police) 
are there. Let them fall into their own trap. I am 
playing mislocq (comedy) for a fayiandel en fine 
pegrhie (a comrade in the last extremity).” 

This was said with the unction of a priest trying to 
impress sinners, and was accompanied b}’ a look with 
which Jacques Collin took in the whole prkm^ saw the 
jailers under the arcade, and showed them sarcastically 
to his comrades. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 253 

“ See those cuisiniers (spies). Allumez vos clairs, 
et remouchez (light jour lights and snuff the candles ; 
see and observe). Ne me conobrez jyas, ^pargnons le 
poitou^ and engantez moi en sangliev (Don’t know me ; 
let us take precautions, and treat me as a priest), or 
I ’ll ruin you, — 3’ou, j our largues, and j’our auhert 
(fortunes).” 

“ Tas done tafe de nozigues (do j’ou distrust us)?” 
said Fil-de-Soie. “ Have j’ou come to cromper (save), 
Theodore ? ” 

“Theodore!” exclaimed Jacques Collin, repressing 
a ciy. It was a last torturing blow to the broken 
colossus. 

“ Thej" are going to buter (knock over, guillotine) 
him,” said La Pouraille. “ He has been gerbe db mort 
(sheaved, condemned to death) for the last two 
months.” 

Jacques Collin was taken with a sudden faintness ; 
his knees gave way. The three fanandels supported 
him, and he had the presence of mind to clasp his 
hands, and seem to speak with unction. La Pouraille 
and Le Biffon respectfullj^ held him up, while Fil-de- 
Soie ran to the jailer stationed as guard before the door 
which led to the parlor. 

“ This venerable priest wants to sit down ; give him 
a chair,” he said. 

Thus Bibi-Lupin’s grand stroke was a failure. 


254 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

Trompe la-Mort, like Napoleon, recognized by his 
soldiers, obtained the respect and submission of the 
three convicts. Two words had sufficed. Those words 
were your largues and 3'our aubert (your women and 
your money), the summing up of the real affections of 
mankind. This threat was to the three criminals an 
indication of power. The dab still held their fortune 
in his hands. All-powerful as ever, their dab had not 
betrayed them, as false brothers said he had. More- 
over, the colossal reputation for ability’ and shrewdness 
acquired b^' their master stimulated the curiosit}’ of the 
three men ; for, in prison life, curiositv" is the sole spur 
to these jaded minds. The boldness of Jacques Col- 
lin’s present disguise, maintained even under the bolts 
and bars of the Conciergerie, bewildered and dazzled 
the three criminals. 

“ I have been in solitary confinement for the last 
four days, and I did not know that Theodore was so 
near the abbaye,*" said Jacques Collin. “ I came here 
to save a poor young fellow who hanged himself yester- 
day, up tliere^ at four o’clock, and here I am, con- 
fronted with another misfortune. I have no longer any 
aces in my game ! ” 

“ Poor ddh ! ” said Fil-de-Soie. 

“Ha! the boulanger devil) abandons me!” 

cried Jacques Collin, tearing himself out of his com- 
rades’ arms. “ I tell 3*011 there comes a moment when 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 255 

the world is stronger than we are ! La Cigogne (the 
stork, Palais de Justice, prefecture of police, the crim- 
inal authorities). La Cigogne nabs us at last.’^ 

The director of the Conciergerie, informed of the 
faintness of the Spanish priest, came himself to the 
preau to watch him. He ordered a chair to be brought, 
made him sit down in the sunlight, and examined his 
whole appearance and bearing with that formidable 
perspicacity which increases da}* by day through the 
exercise of such functions, though it is always hidden 
under an air of perfect indifference. 

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” said Jacques Collin, “ to be con- 
founded with such people, the refuse of society, crim- 
inals, murderers ! But God will not abandon his 
servant. My dear monsieur, I will strive to mark my 
passage through this dreadful place by acts of mercy, 
the memory of which will last. I will endeavor to con- 
vert these unhappy men, and teach them that they 
have a soul ; that eternal life awaits them, and al- 
though they have lost all on earth, they still have 
heaven to win, — the heaven that belongs to true 
repentance.” 

Twenty or thirty prisoners, clustering at the back of 
the three great convicts, whose dangerous glances kept 
three feet of distance between themselves and the in- 
quisitive group, heard this allocution uttered with evan- 
gelical unction. 


256 The Last Incarnation of Vavirin. 

“He! Monsieur Gault,’’ said the formidable La 
Pouraille ; “oh, 3 ’es, we’ll listen to him!” 

“ They tell me,” said Jacques Collin, beside whom 
Monsieur Gault was standing, that a man condemned 
to death is in this prison.” 

“Yes; they have just read to him the rejection of 
his appeal,” replied Monsieur Gault. 

“ I don’t understand what that means,” said Jacques 
Collin, looking helplessl 3 " about him. 

“ Heavens ! is n’t he sinve (simple) ? ” said the youth 
who had lately consulted Fil-de-Soie about the galleys. 

“ Wh^’, it means,” said the nearest prisoner, “that 
to-day or to-morrow they ’ll fauche him.” 

Fanche 7 said Jacques Collin, whose look and 
tone of ignorance filled his three fanandels with 
admiration. 

“ In their language,” said the director, “ that means 
the execution of the penalty of death. When the clerk 
has read to the prisoner the rejection of his appeal, the 
executioner receives orders to proceed with the execu- 
tion. The unhappy man has steadily refused the succor 
of religion.” 

“ Ah, monsieur,” cried Jacques Collin, “ there is a 
soul to save ! ” 

He clasped his hands with an expression of feeling 
which seemed to have the effect of divine fervor upon 
the watchful director. 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin, 


257 


“ Monsieur,” continued Trompe-la-Mort, “ let me 
prove to you what I am, and what I can do ; permit me 
to bring repentance >into that hardened heart. God has 
given me the faculty of saying certain words which 
produce great changes in the soul. I touch some 
hearts; 1 open them. What can 3’ou fear? Send 
jailers or gendarmes with me if 3’ou choose.” 

“I will see if the chaplain of the prison will allow 
3’ou to take his place,” said Monsieur Gault. 

The director withdrew, struck with the air of perfect 
indifference, except as to curiosity, with which the con- 
victs and other prisoners looked at the priest, whose 
unctuous voice bestowed a charm on his French and 
Spanish jargon. 

“ How did you come here, monsieur I’abbe?” asked 
Fil-de-Soie’s 3’oung questioner, 

“ Oh, by mistake ! ” replied Jacques Collin, taking 
the measure of the young man. “ I was found in the 
house of a courtesan who was robbed after her death. 
It w'as evident that she had killed herself ; but the 
robbers, who were probably the servants, were not 
arrested.” 

‘‘ Was it on account of that robbery the young man 
hanged himself? ” 

“ The poor lad could not endure the thought of being 
disgraced by unjust imprisonment,” replied Troinpe-la- 
Mort, raising his eyes to heaven. 


17 


258 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

“Yes,” said the young man, “for I am told they 
were just going to release him when he committed sui- 
cide. What ill-luck ! ” 

“It is only innocence that cannot bear the thought 
of disgrace,” said Jacques Collin. “ Remark also that 
the theft was a loss, not a gain, to him.” 

“ How much did it amount to?” asked Fil-de-Soie, 
the deep and shrewd. 

“ Seven hundred and fifty thousand francs,” said 
Jacques Collin, in a low voice. 

The three convicts looked at each other, and retired 
from the group which the other prisoners had formed 
round the so-called ecclesiastic. 

“It is he who has rince la profonde (rinsed 
out, robbed) the girl,” said Fil-de-Soie to Le Biffon, 
in a low voice. “ They have tried to coquer le 
taffe (frighten us ; toffe from the German tajfen, 
to be afraid) about our thunes de balles (five-franc 
pieces) . 

“ He ’ll always be the dab of the Grands Fanandels,^^ 
said La Pouraill.e. “ Our carle has not been decare 
(made away with).” 

La Pouraille, who was looking for a man in whom 
he could trust, had an interest in thinking Jacques 
Collin honest. In prisons, above all other places, men 
believe what they hope. 

“I’ll bet that he’ll esquinte le dab de la Cigogne 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 259 

(fool the attorne3’-general) and cromper Theodore,” 
said Fil-de-Soie. 

“ If he does,” said Le Biffon, I shaVt exactlj’ think 
him Meg (God), but he must have hovffarde^ as the^' 
sa^^ he has, with the boulanger (smoked a pipe with the 
devil).” 

“Yes, that’s so; didn’t 3'ou hear him sa3’, ‘ Ze 
boulanger abandons me ’ ? ” remarked Fil-de-Soie. 

“Ah!” cried La Pouraille, “if he would onl3' 
cromper ma sorbonne, what a viocque (life) I’d have 
with my fade de carle (share of our money) safe in his 
hands, and m3’’ rondins jaunes servis (gold pieces 
buried).” 

“ T'ais sa balle (follow his advice),” said Fil-de- 
Soie. 

Planches-tu (are 3^ou joking)?” replied La Pou- 
raille, looking at his fanandel. 

“Aren’t 3’ou sinve (silly)!” exclaimed Le Biffon. 
“You’ll be gerbe a la passe (condemned to death); 
therefore, you haven’t any other lovrde d pessigner 
(door you can force) to keep on your paturons (feet), 
and morfiler^ dessaler^ and goupiner (eat, drink, and 
steal) again, except to lend him 3’our back.” 

“ One thing is certain,” said La Pouraille, “ not one 
of us is to fail i\iQ dab ; whoever does. I’ll take him 
with me where I am going.” 

“ And he ’ll do as he says !” cried Fil-de-Soie. 


260 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

Persons who are least susceptible of sympath}* tor 
this strange world of criminals can now conceive the 
state of mind of Jacques Collin, who saw on the one 
hand the 'dead body of the idol he had watched during 
five terrible hours of the past night, and on the other, 
the approaching death of his former chain companion, 
Theodore Calvi. Even to see the latter, he had need 
to display uncommon cleverness ; but to save him 
would be a miracle ; and his mind already turned that 
way. 

To understand what he now attempted, it is neces- 
sary' to remark here that thieves and murderers and 
all those who people the galleys are not as formidable 
as we believe them to be. Putting certain veiy rare 
exceptions aside, they are all cowards, as the result, 
no doubt, of the fear that is perpetually^ pressing on 
their minds. Their faculties being ceaselessly bent on 
stealing, and the execution of each exploit demanding 
the employment of all the forces of life, an agility of 
mind equal to that of tlie body', and an attention which 
uses up their mental force, they become' stupid outside 
the range of these violent exercises of their will, for 
the same reason that a singer or a dancer falls ex- 
hausted after a fatiguing pas^ or one of tliose ter- 
rible duos which modern composers inflict upon the 
public. 

Evil-doers are, in fact, when not employed upon their 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 261 

special business, so devoid of reason, or so oppressed 
1 ) 3 ^ fear, tliat the}' become under man}* circumstances 
absolute children. Credulous to the last degree, the 
simplest strateg}’ will take them in. After the success 
of some enterprise, the}’ are in such a state of pros- 
tration that the}’ rush immediately into all forms of 
debauchery, to recover calmness by exhausting all their 
forces ; they seek forgetfulness of their crime in the 
overthrow of their reason. In this condition, tliey are 
at the mercy of the police. Once arrested, they are 
blind, they lose their heads, they have so much need 
of hope that they believe in everything ; and there is 
no absurdity which they cannot be made to admit. ‘An 
example will serve to show to what lengtlis the stupid- 
ity of a captured criminal can go. Bibi-Lupin had 
recently obtained the confession of a murderer, who 
was nineteen years of age, by inducing him to believe 
that minors were never executed. When the young 
fellow was transferred to the Conciergerie to undergo 
his sentence after the rejection of his appeal, Bibi- 
Lupin saw him. 

Are you quite sure you are not twenty years old ? ” 
said that terrible detective agent. 

“Quite sure; I am only nineteen and a half,” said 
the murderer, who was perfectly calm. 

“Well,” replied Bibi-Lupin, “make yourself easy; 
you never will be twenty.” 


262 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 


“ How so? ” 

“ Because you will be fauche within three days.” 

The murderer who still believed, even after his sen- 
tence, that minors were never executed, collapsed like 
an omelette soufflee. 

These men, so cruel from the necessit}^ of suppress- 
ing testimony, for they murder to destroy- proof (this 
is one of the reasons put forth by those who oppose 
the death penal t}’), these colossi of adroitness and abil- 
ity, in whom the action of the hand, the rapidity of the 
glance, in short, all the senses are trained like those 
of savages, are only heroic evil-doers on the scene of 
their exploits. The crime committed, not onl}' do em- 
barrassments begin (for thej^ are as doltish under the 
necessity of hiding the proceeds of their theft as in the 
rest of their conduct), but they are weakened physical!}’, 
like a woman after her confinement. Vigorously energetic 
in their conceptions of an evil deed, they are like chil- 
dren after it succeeds. In a word, these men are wild 
beasts, easy to kill when they are surfeited. Once in 
prison, however, these singular beings become men in 
dissimulation and silent discretion, who seldom give way 
till the last instant, after they have been tortured and 
exhausted by examinations and the length of their 
imprisonment. 

We can now understand how it was, that the three 
fanandels^ instead of betraying their dab, resolved to 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 263 

r 

serve him ; the}" suspected that he was master of the 
seven hundred and fifty thousand francs ; they admired 
his calmness under the bolts and bars of the Con- 
ciergerie ; and they believed him capable of affording 
them protection. 


264 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin, 


V. 

THE CONDEMNED CELL. 

When Monsieur Gault, the director of the Con- 
ciergerie, left Xhepreau, he returned to his office through 
the parlor, in order to find Bibi-Lupin, who for the 
last twenty minutes had been watching Jacques Collin’s 
meeting with his fellow faiiandels through a peep-hole 
constructed below one of the windows in that room. 

“ None of them recognized him,’’ said Monsieur 
Gault; “and Napolitas, who has watched them all, 
detected nothing. The poor priest, in his despondency 
through the night, said not a word that showed Jacques 
Collin beneath his cassock.” 

“That proves only how well he knows prisons,” 
replied the detective officer. 

Napolitas, Bibi-Lupin’s secretaiy, unknown to all 
the prisoners then in the Conciergerie, had played the 
part of the young man of family arrested for forger}’. 

“ He asks permission to confess the man who is now 
to be executed.” 

Good ! ” said Bibi-Lupin, “ that ’s our last resource ; 
I wonder I did not think of it. Theodore Calvi, that 
young Corsican, was Jacques Collin’s chain companion. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 265 

They used to say that Jacques Colliu made him the 
best patarasses ever seen at the preT 

Galley-slaves make a sort of pad which the}' slip 
between the iron ring and their flesh, so as to lessen 
the pressure of the manicle on the ankle and instep. 
These pads, made of tow and linen, are called at the 
galleys, patarasses. 

“Who is watching the condemned man?” asked 
Bibi-Lupin, addressing Monsieur Gault. 

“ Coeur-la-Virole.” 

“Good! then I ’ll joiawsser (new-skin) myself as a 
gendarme and watch him myself. I shall hear tliem, 
and I ’ll answer for all.” 

“ Are not you afraid that if it is Jacques Collin, 
he might recognize you and strangle you ? ” asked 
Monsieur Gault. 

“ As a gendarme I shall have a sabre,” replied the offi- 
cer. “ Besides, if it is Jacques Collin, he will never do 
anything to let himself be gerber d la imsse (condemned 
to death). If he is a priest, of course I am safe.” 

“ There is no time to lose, then,” said Monsieur 
Gault ; “ it is half-past eight ; P^re Sauteloup had just 
read the rejection of the appeal, and Monsieur Sanson 
is waiting for the order from the Parquet.’’ 

“ Yes, the execution is fixed for to-day ; the hus- 
sards de la Veuve (veuve, widow, — another name, a 
terrible name, for the guillotine) are ordered out,” re- 


266 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

plied Bibi-Lupin. “ I understand why it is that the 
attorney-general hesitates. The fellow has steadil}^ 
declared his innocence, and to m3’ mind there have not 
been convincing proofs against him.” 

“He is a true Corsican,” replied Monsieur Gault; 
“he has never said a word that could implicate him; 
he resists all efforts to make him speak.” 

These last words contain the dismal history of a man 
condemned to death, — a man whom law and justice 
cut from the land of the living. The Parquet [the 
attornej’-general, his bureau, in general terms, the Law] 
is sovereign ; it is dependent on none ; it acts of its 
own conscience onl}". Prisons belong to the Parquet, 
which is their absolute master. Poesy has laid hold 
of the “man condemned to die,” as a social subject 
eminentl}' fitted to strike the imagination. Poesy can 
be, and has been, sublime on that topic ; prose has 
no resource, except realit}’, but that realitj" is terrible 
enough to hold its own against poetical enthusiasm. 
The life of a condemned criminal, who has not con- 
fessed his crime or his accomplices, is one of fearful 
torture. No longer subjected to the “boot,” which 
crushed the feet, nor to the pouring in of water to the 
stomach, nor to the stretching of the limbs b}^ horrible 
machinery’, the wretched man is delivered over to an 
artful and, so to speak, negative torture. The Parquet 
leaves him, after he is once sentenced, absolutely alone ; 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 267 

in darkness and in silence, with only one companion 
(a spy), whom, of necessit}', he distrusts. 

Amiable modern philanthrop}’ thinks it knows all 
about the horrible punishment of isolation ; it is quite 
mistaken. Since the abolition of torture, the Parquet, 
with a natural desire of comforting the alread}’ too sen- 
sitive consciences of juries, has discovered the terrible 
resources of working upon remorse which solitar}’ con- 
finement gives to justice. Solitude is a vacuum, and 
the moral nature abhors it as deeph" as the physical 
nature. Solitude is not habitable, except to the man 
of genius who fills it with his ideas, — those virgins 
of the spiritual world ; or to the contemplator of 
Divine works, who finds it illuminated by the light 
of heaven and filled by the breath and voice of God. 
Outside of those two ^classes of men, so near to par- 
adise, solitude is to torture what morals are to ph3’s- 
ics. Between solitude and torture, there is simplv the 
difference between nervous illness and a case of sur- 
gery". It is suffering multiplied indefinite!}". The bod}" 
touches the infinite through the nervous system as the 
spirit penetrates it by thought. Therefore, in the rec- 
ords of the Parquet of Paris criminals who die without 
confessing their crime are few in number. 

This gloomy situation, which assumes enormous pro- 
portions in certain cases (in politics for instance, when 
the State or a dynasty is in question) , has a place of 


268 Tlie Last Incarnation of Vtautrin. 

its own in the “ Corned}' of Human Life.” But here 
and now, a description of the stone box in which, since 
the Restoration, the Parquet of Paris keeps the pris- 
oner who is condemned to death, must suffice to show 
the horror of the last days of that man. 

Before the revolution of July there existed, and still 
exists, in the Conciergerie what is called the “death 
chamber.” This room adjoins the office, but is sepa- 
iTited from it by a massive wall ; it is also flanked by a 
wall, seven feet thick, which supports a portion of the 
vast Salle des Pas-perdus. It is entered from a long, 
dark corridor, into which the eye penetrates when we 
stand in the middle of the great arched hall of the 
guichet^ the office hall. This dismal room gets all its 
light from a ventilator, protected by a heavy iron grat- 
ing, which is hardly noticeable as we enter the Con- 
ciergerie. All escape from it is impossible. The 
corridor, which leads to the solitary cells and the 
women’s quarter, opens in the hall near the stove, 
round which the jailers and gendarmes are always 
gathered. The ventilator, sole opening to the exte- 
rior, nine feet above the floor, looks into the first 
court-yard, guarded by sentries at the outer gate. No 
human power could succeed in mining the walls ; more- 
over, a criminal, when condemned to death, is instantly 
put into the camisole (strait-jacket), — an article whicli 
deprives him of the use of his hands ; he is also chained 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 


269 


b}’ the leg to his camp bedstead, and, as a final guard, 
he is watched and fed by a mouton (police spy). The 
floor of this room is paved with thick stone blocks, and 
the light is so feeble that the eye can barely distinguisli 
anything. 

It is impossible not to feel chilled to the very mar- 
row of our bones in entering this dreadful place, even 
to-day, when sixteen years have elapsed since this 
death chamber has been used, — changes in the execu- 
tion of criminal justice having altered the arrangements 
of the prison. But imagine tlie criminal in that place 
in company with his remorse, in silence and darkness, 
— two sources of horror, — and ask 3’ourselves if such 
imprisonment was not enough to drive him mad. What 
organizations those must be if their quality resists a 
mental strain to which the strait-jacket adds that of 
immobilit}", inaction ! 

Theodore Calvi, the Corsican, now twent3'-seven years 
of age, had wrapped himself in a veil of absolute 
silence, and for two months had resisted the effects of 
this dungeon, and the insidious chatter of his attendant 
sp3'. The following account of the singular criminal 
* case w^hich had led to the Corsican’s condemnation is 
worth reading. Although it is extremel3^ curious, the 
anah'sis here given will be veiT rapid ; for it is impos- 
sible to make a long digression in a scene which seeks 
to offer no other interest than that surrounding Jac(j[ues 


270 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Collin, — a species of vertebral column, who by his 
dangerous influence is bound up, so to speak, with 
other volumes of this study of manners and customs, — 
namely, ^‘Pere Goriot,” “ The Great Man of the Prov- 
inces in Paris,” and “ Lucien de Rubempre/’ The 
imagination of the reader will develop for itself the 
mysteries of a crime which at this moment was causing 
great uneasiness to the judges and juries of the court 
before which Theodore Calvi had been tried. Since the 
day when the criminal’s petition had been rejected by 
the Court of Appeals, the attorney-general, Monsieur de 
Granville, had studied the case, and, in consequence, had 
delayed the execution of the sentence from da}^ to da}’, so 
anxious was he to reassure the jurors by making known 
publicly that the criminal had confessed his crime. 

A poor widow at Nanterre, living in a lonely house 
in that township, which is situated, as we all know, in 
the middle of the arid plain which lies between Mont- 
Valerien, Saint-Germain, the hills of Sartrouville, and 
d’Argenteuil, was murdered and robbed a few days 
after she had received her share of an unexpected 
legacy. This share consisted of three thousand francs 
in money, a dozen forks and spoons, a chain, a gold 
watch, and some linen. Instead of investing the money 
in Paris, as the notary of the man who bequeathed it 
advised, the old woman chose to keep it by her. In 
the first place, she had never before seen so much 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 271 

mone}^ of her own ; and in the next, she distrusted 
eveiy living soul in matters of business, as countiy- 
people of the working-classes generallj’ do. But after 
much discussion with a wine-merchant of Nanterre, 
who was her relation, and also the relation of the 
deceased man, the widow finally resolved to bu}’ an 
annuit}", sell her house at Nanterre, and go to live as 
a hourgeoise at Saint-Germain. 

The house she occupied, surrounded b}’ a large gar- 
den inclosed bj’ a miserable fence, was the usual poor 
abode which small farmers in the neighborhood of Paris 
build for themselves. Plaster and rough stone, being 
plentiful at Nanterre, where the land is honeycombed 
with quarries worked on the surface, had been hastil}" 
put together, as we often see near Paris, without the 
slightest architectural idea. Such constructions are the 
huts of civilized savages. This particular house con- 
sisted of a ground-floor and a second floor, above which 
were the attics. The husband of this woman, and the 
builder of the house, who had owned a quarry, had put 
very solid iron bars to all the windows. The entrance 
door was also remarkably solid. The man must have 
feared their lonely life in the open country, — and such 
a countiy ! His business connections were chieflj- with 
the master-masons of Paris, and from thence he brought 
back in his empU’ carts the more important materials 
of his house, which was built about five hundred feet 


272 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

from the quarry. He picked out the things he wanted 
among the various “ demolitions” of Paris, and bought 
them at a very low price. Thus the windows, iron 
railings, doors, blinds, and all cabinet-work, came from 
authorized destruction, or were gifts made to him by 
his customers, the masons. The house, approached 
through a good-sized court-yard, in which were the 
stables, was inclosed from the main road by walls. A 
strong iron railing made the gate ; watch-dogs were in 
the stable, and a small dog was kept in the house at 
night. Behind this building lay a garden of rather 
more than two acres in extent. 

The wife of the quarry-man, now a widow without 
children, lived alone in the house with a single servant. 
The sale of the quarry had paid off the debts of her 
late husband, who had been dead two years. The sole 
propert}^ of the widow was the lonely house, where she 
kept cows and chickens, selling the milk and eggs in 
Nanterre. As she no longer kept either a stable-man, a 
carter, or lal^orers in the quariy, the garden was not 
cultivated and all the vegetables she ate came up of 
themselves in the ston}" soil. 

The proceeds of the sale of the house, and her late 
inheritance amounted in all to about eight thousand 
francs, and the widow thought herself very lucky to be 
able to live at Saint-Germain on the annuity of seven 
or eight hundred francs which she expected to get 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 273 

from the investment. She had held several confer- 
ences with a notary at Saint-Germain, for she refused 
to take an annuity from her cousin the wine-merchant 
at Nanterre, who had offered her the investment. 

This was the state of things when it was noticed 
one day that neither the widow Pigeau nor her servant- 
woman had been seen for some time. At the end of 
three days, the law, informed of this fact, went to work ; 
Monsieur Popinot, an examining judge, and the public 
prosecutor came down from Paris, and the following 
facts were established : — 

Neither the iron gates of the court-yard, nor the en- 
trance door to the house showed any sign of burglar}’. 
The ke}' was in the lock of the front door on the in- 
side. Not a single iron bar had been forced. The 
locks, blinds, in short, all the means of closing the 
house, were intact. The walls showed no trace what- 
ever of the passage of evil-doers. The chimne3’s being 
of tile flues did not afford any practicable entrance. 
The roofs were sound and in proper condition, and 
showed no signs of violence. When the magistrates, 
the gendarmes, and Bibi-Lupin reached the bedrooms 
on the second floor, they found the widow Pigeau stran- 
gled in her bed, and the servant strangled in hers with 
their own night-handkerchiefs. The two bodies were 
in a state of putrefaction ; so were the bodies of the 
two watch-dogs and the little house-dog. The three 


18 


274 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

thousand francs had been taken as well as the forks 
and spoons and jewels. The garden fence was next 
examined ; it had not been broken. Within the gar- 
dens the paths sliowed no trace of any one having 
passed along them. The judge thought it probable 
that the murderer had walked on the grass to avoid 
leaving footprints, in case he had entered the premises 
at the back. But, even so, how did he get into the 
house? On the garden side, the door had a frame in 
which were three iron bars that w'ere found to be in- 
tact. The key was in the lock on the inside as at the 
front door. 

AVhen the fact of these impossibilities was plainly 
demonstrated by Monsieur Popinot and Bibi-Lupin, who 
spent a whole day on the premises, observing ever}’- 
thing, and also by the public prosecutor and the com- 
mander of the post at Nanterre, the murder became 
a terrible problem, before which justice and the law 
seemed forced to succumb. 

This drama, which was published in the “ Gazette 
des Tribunaux,^’ took place in the winter of 1828 and 
1829. Heaven knows what an excitement of curiosity 
the mysterious crime stirred up in Paris. But Paris 
finds new dramas to batten on everj’ morning, and soon 
forgets each one. The police, however, forget nothing. 
Three months after the abortive inquiry, a girl of the 
town, who was being observed by the agents of Bibi- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 275 

Lupin in consequence of her sudden extravagance, and 
watched on account of her acquaintance with certain 
thieves, endeavored ineffectual!}" to pawn, through a 
friend, twelve knives and forks and a gold watch and 
chain. This fact reached the ears of Bibi-Lupin, who 
remembered such articles as being stolen at Nanterre. 
The commissioners of the Mont-de-Piete, and all the 
second-hand dealers in Paris who were known to be 
receivers of stolen goods were notified, and Bibi-Lupin 
put the girl, who was called Manon-la-blonde, under 
strict surveillance. 

Now Manon-la-blonde was deepl}^ in love with a 
3 ’oung man who was little known, and was thought to 
be indifferent to the fair Manon. Mysteiy upon mys- 
tery. This young man, when subjected after this dis- 
cover}" to the attention of spies, was found to be no 
other than an escaped galley-slave, a famous hero of 
several Corsican vendettas, the handsome Theodore 
Calvi. 

A treacherous receiver of stolen goods, one of those 
dealers who serve both criminals and police, was 
launched upon Theodore, and after sundry negotiations 
he agreed to buy the plate and the watch and chain. 
At the moment when this man was counting out the 
money to Theodore, who was disguised as a woman, 
the police made a descent upon the shop, arrested Calvi, 
and seized the articles. The examination at once be- 


276 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

gan. From such feeble elements it was impossible to 
draw out, to use the Parquet’s term, a capital offence. 
Calvi never contradicted himself ; his statement was 
not confused. He said that a country woman had sold 
him those articles at Argenteuil ; after having bought 
them, he heard of the murder at Nanterre and saw the 
danger of possessing articles which, having been de- 
scribed in the inventory’ of the deceased uncle’s prop- 
erty, were known to have been in the possession of the 
murdered woman. Finall}', being compelled by pov- 
erty to sell these articles he had tried to get rid of 
them by employing a young woman, who was not other- 
wise mixed up in the affair. 

Nothing further could be obtained from the Corsican, 
who was able by his firmness and his silence to put into 
the mind of the authorities an idea that the wine-mer- 
chant of Nanterre was the guilty person, and that his 
wife had sold the stolen articles. The unfortunate 
cousin of the late widow and his wife were arrested ; 
but after a week’s imprisonment and close examination 
it was proved that neither husband nor wife had left 
their place of business during the time when the mur- 
der was committed. Moreover, Calvi did not recognize 
in the wife the woman who, as he declared, had sold 
him the property. 

As Manon-la blonde, who was implicated in the affair, 
was proved to have spent over a thousand francs be- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 211 

tween the period of the murder and the time when she, 
at Calvi’s request, tried to pawn the stolen articles, 
such proof was thought sufficient to send both the ex- 
convict and his concubine before the court of assizes. 
This murder was the eighteenth committed by the Cor- 
sican ; he was judged guilty, and condemned to death, 
for he seemed to be the author of the crime so skilfully 
committed. The examination had proved by a number 
of witnesses that Calvi was at Nanterre for over a 
month at the time of the murder ; he had worked for 
masons, and his face was constantly covered with dust 
and plaster. All who saw him at Nanterre declared 
that he was onl3’ eighteen years old, and he must have 
plotted and prepared the crime for a month before 
committing it. 

The Parquet believed he had accomplices. They 
measured the tubes of the chimnc}" to see if Manon-la- 
blonde’s slender body could have passed through them ; 
but a child of six could n’t have slipped through the 
tile-pipes which modern architects substitute for the 
huge chimnej^ flues of former da3's. It was this irri- 
tating and singular uncertaintj’ which delayed the exe- 
cution of Theodore’s sentence. The prison chaplain 
had, as we have already heard, totally failed in obtain- 
ing a confession from him. 

This affair and Calvi’s name appear to have escaped 
the attention of Jacques Collin, then preoccupied with 


278 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

his own plot against Nucingen. Moreover, Trompe- 
la-Mort had avoided as much as possible les amis, and 
all connected with the Palais de Justice. To be brought 
face to face with a fanandel might subject the d6b to a 
demand for an accounting he could not make. 

The director of the Conciergerie went at once to the 
office of the attornej'-general, and there found the public 
prosecutor talking with Monsieur de Granville, and 
holding the order for execution in his hand. Monsieur 
de Granville, who had spent the night at the h6tel de 
Seriz}’, overwhelmed with fatigue and anxiet}’ (for the 
physicians dared not affirm as yet that the countess 
would keep her reason), was nevertheless obliged by 
this important execution to be at his office earh’. 
After talking a few moments with the director. Mon- 
sieur de ' Granville took back the order of execution 
from his assistant and gave it to Gault. 

“ Let the execution take place,” he said, “ unless 
extraordinary’ circumstances appear, and of those you 
must judge; I trust wholly in your prudence. They 
can delay putting up the scaffold until half-past ten 
o’clock ; you have, therefore, an hour left. In sucli a 
case hours are equal to centuries, and many’ events 
may occur in a century. Do not give any hope of a 
reprieve. Let the toilette be made if necessary’ ; and 
if the prisoner makes no confession, give Sanson the 
order for execution by half-past ten. Let him wait till 
# then.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 279 

As the director was leaving the office of the attornej*- 
general, he met Monsieur Camusot in the vaulted pas- 
sage which leads to the galleiy, who was on his wa}’ to 
find Monsieur de Granville. He stopped, and had a 
rapid conversation with the judge, whom he informed 
of all that had happened at the Conciergerie in relation 
to Jacques Collin ; then he hurried on to superintend 
the confronting of Trompe-la-Mort with his former chain 
companion. He did not, however, permit the self- 
styled ecclesiastic to see the condemned man until 
Bibi-Lupin, admirably disguised as a gendarme, had 
taken the place of the police spy who was watching the 
young Corsican. 

It is impossible to describe the astonishment of the 
WwQQ fanandels when they saw a jailer come in search 
of Jacques Collin to take him to the condemned cell. 
They jumped toward the chair in which Jacques Collin 
was sitting, simultaneously. 

“Is it for to-day, Monsieur Julien?” asked Fil-de- 
Soie of the jailer. 

“Yes, Chariot is there,” replied the official, with 
perfect indifference. 

The populace and the world that inhabits prisons 
give that name to the executioner of Paris. It dates 
back to the revolution of 1789. The name produced a 
profound sensation. All the prisoners looked at each 
other. 


280 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ It is settled,” said the jailer, in reply to some in- 
quiries. “ Monsieur Gault has received the order for 
execution, and the sentence has just been read.” 

“So,” said La Pouraille, ‘‘the lad has had all the 
sacraments.” 

And he drew in a long breath. 

“ Poor little Theodore ! ” cried Le Biffon ; “ he is a 
nice little chap. It is a pity to eternuer dans le son 
(sneeze into the bran, the basket of the guillotine) at 
his age.” 

The jailer went toward the guichet^ thinking that the 
Spanish priest followed him ; but Jacques Collin walked 
slowly, and when he saw the jailer ten steps ahead of 
him, he turned faint, and signed to La Pouraille to give 
him an arm. 

“ He ’s a murderer,” said Napolitas, motioning to La 
Pouraille, and offering to the priest his own arm. 

“No, to me he is a sufferer,” replied Trompe-la- 
Mort, with the presence of mind and unction of the 
archbishop of Cambrai. 

He walked awa}" from Napolitas, who had seemed to 
him suspicious from the moment he laid eyes on him, 
and said rapidly in a low voice to the three fanandels : 

“He is on the first step of the Abbaye-de-Moiite-dr 
Regret^ but I ’m the prior. I ’ll show you how to en~ 
tijler la Cicogne (lead to church, get round the law). 
I ’ll cromper that sorbonne from its clutches, — I seek 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 281 

to give that soul to heaven ! ” he added, with fervor, 
as he saw the prisoners pressing round him. 

He overtook the jailer at the guichet. 

“ He came to save Theodore,” said Fil-de-Soie, — 
“ we guessed right. AVhat a dab ! ” 

“How can he save him? The hussards de la guil- 
lotine are there ; he won’t even be allowed to see him,” 
said Le Biffon. 

“ He has le boulanger on his side ! ” cried La Pou- 
raille. “ He, poisser nos philippes (crib our mone^’) ! 
— not he ! He loves les amis too well ; he has too 
much need of us. They ’ve been trying to put us d 
la manque pour lui (fail, betra}’ him) ; but we are not 
gnioles (ninnies) . If he can cromper Theodore he shall 
have ma balle (my secret).” 

These last words only served to increase the devo- 
tion of the three convicts to their master. From that 
moment their famous dab became all their hope. 

Jacques Collin now played his part without a failure. 
He, who knew the Conciergerie as well as he knew the 
three galleys, mistook the way so naturally that the 
jailer was obliged to say to him at every turn, “This 
wa3’,” “ That way,” until the}" reached the greffe (the 
chief, or registration, office). There Jacques Collin saw 
at a glance, leaning against the stove, a large man 
dressed in black, with a long and ruddy face which 
was not without a certain distinction, in whom he 
recognized Sanson. 


282 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“Monsieur is the chaplain?” he said, going up to 
him with an air of cordialit}". 

This mistake was so dreadful that it horrified the 
spectators. 

“ No, monsieur,” replied Sanson, “ I have other 
functions.’^ 

This Sanson, the father of the last executioner (from 
whom the office has latel 3 ^ been taken), was the son 
of the Sanson who executed Lous XVI. 

After an hereditaiy exercise of this function for four 
hundred 3 'ears, the heir of so inaiy'’ torturers had at- 
tempted to cast off the burden of this entail. The 
Sansons, executioners at Rouen during a period of 
two centuries before the 3 " were promoted to the first 
office of their calling in the kingdom, had executed 
the sentences of the law, from father to son, since 
the thirteenth centur 3 \ There are few families who 
can show an example of a genealog 3 " preserved from 
father to son for six centuries. The man whom we 
now see was a cavaliy captain with ever 3 ’ prospect 
of a gallant career before him, when his father com- 
pelled him to assist in the execution of the King. 
After that, when the countless executions of 1793 re- 
quired two scaffolds (one at the Barriere du Tr 6 ne, the 
other on the place de Greve), he made him his second. 
About sixt 3 ^ years of age at the time of which we now 
write, this terrible functionary was noticeable for his 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 283 

gentle and composed manner, the good taste of his 
dress, and his deep contempt for Bibi-Liipin and his 
acolytes, the purveyors of the guillotine. The only 
indication in the man which betrayed the blood of the 
old torturers was the breadth and the extraordinaiy 
thickness of his hands. Sufficiently well-educated, valu- 
ing liiglil}" his status as citizen and elector, passion- 
ately devoted, it was said, to gardening, this tall, stout 
man with a low voice, a calm demeanor, a broad and 
bald forehead, and habitually silent, was far more like 
a member of the British aristocrac}’ than the execu- 
tioner of France. Consequent!}’, a Spanish canon might 
easil^’have committed the mistake which Jacques Collin 
committed intentionall}’. . 

“He is not a convict,” said the head-jailer to the 
director. 

“ I begin to think so mj’self,” replied Monsieur 
Gault, nodding to his subordinate. 

Jacques Collin was at once ushered into the sort of 
cellar where 3'oung Theodore, in a strait-jacket, was 
sitting on the edge of his horrible iron bedstead. 
Trompe-la-Mort, taking instant advantage of the light 
thrown into the cell b}’ the opening of the door, recog- 
nized his enemy Bibi-Lupin in the gendarme who was 
standing: on guard and leaning on his sabre. 

“ lo sono Gahha-Morte. Pavla nostro italiano^'^ 
said Jacques Collin, quickly. “ Vengo ti salvarT (“I 


284 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

am Trompe-la-Mort ; speak Italian ; I come to save 
you.”) 

All that the two comrades now said to each other was 
unintelligible to the false gendarme, and as Bibi-Lupin 
was there as guard over the prisoner he dared not 
leave his post. The wrath of the chief of the detective 
police may be imagined. 

Theodore Calvi, a 3 ’oung man with a sallow, olive 
skin, fair hair, and hollow eyes of a misty blue, ex- 
tremely well-made, and possessing that amazing mus- 
cular strength which is found concealed under the 
lymphatic appearance of many Southerners, would 
have had a most charming countenance were it not for 
a retreating forehead, arched e\"ebrows, red lips of sav- 
age cruelt}", and a twitching of the muscles of the face, 
denoting that facult}" for irritation especially charac- 
teristic of Corsicans which makes them so prompt to 
assassinate in a sudden quarrel. 

Amazed at the sound of Jacques Collin’s voice, 
Theodore raised his head, believing it was some hallu- 
cination. Then, as a two months’ sojourn in that stone 
box had accustomed his eyes to the darkness, he saw 
that the new-comer was a priest, and he sighed heavily". 
He did not recognize Jacques Collin, whose face, seamed 
by the action of sulphuric acid, did not resemble that of 
his ddh. 

“ It is I, your Jacques ; I have made myself a priest. 


The Last Incartiation of Vautrin. 285 

and I come to save you. Don’t be fool enough to recog- 
nize me ; seem to be confessing to me.” 

This was said very rapidly. 

“ The young man appears to be much broken down ; 
death terrifies him. I think he will confess all,” said 
Jacques Collin, addressing the gendarme. 

“ Tell me something to prove that you are he; for 
3’ou have nothing about you but his voice,” said 
Theodore. 

“Poor 3"Outh ! he tells me he is innocent,” said 
Jacques Collin, still addressing the gendarme. 

Bipi-Lupin dared not answer for fear of being 
recognized. 

“ Sempre mif replied Jacques Collin to Theodore, 
uttering their private password in his ear. 

“ Sempre tif murmured the 3'oung man, giving the 
right repl3". ‘‘Yes, 30U are indeed m3‘ dab’^ 

“ Did 3’Ou do the trick (commit the murder) ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Tell me all, so that I ma3'^ see how to save 3 011. 
There is no time to lose. Chariot is here.” 

The Corsican at once knelt down at the priest’s feet, 
and seemed about to confess. Bibi-Lupin was at a loss 
what to do, for the conversation was so rapid it took 
less time to carry it on than it does to read it. Theo- 
dore related all the circumstances of his crime, Jacques 
Collin being ignorant of them. 


286 The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 

“ The jury condemned me without proof,” he said, in 
conclusion. 

“ Child, you are arguing when they are about to cut 
your hair ! ” 

“ I was really only chargeable with pawning the 
jewels. That ’s how people judge, — and in Paris, 
too ! ” 

“ How was it done?” asked Trompe-la-Mort. 

“Ha! this wa}’. Since I saw 3 ’ou I’ve made the 
acquaintance of a Corsican girl. I met her when I 
came to Paris.” 

“Men who are foolish enough to fall in love with 
w'omen,” exclaimed Jacques Collin, “perish that wa 3 \ 
They are tigers out of cages, — tigers w^ho gossip, and 
have looking-glasses. You were very foolish.” 

“ But — ” 

“ Go on ; tell me what that damned woman did for 
3 ’ou.” 

That love of a woman — slim as an eel, active as a 
monkey — slipped through the top of the oven, and 
opened the door of the house to me. The dogs were 
poisoned. I chilled the two women. After we got the 
money and things, Ginetta locked the door, and got out 
through the oven.” 

“ Such cleverness as that deserves to live,” said 
Jacques Collin, admiring the workmanship of the crime 
as a carver admires a beautiful figurine. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 287 

“ But I committed the foll^' of displaying all that 
cleverness for a paltry three thousand francs.” 

“No, for a woman ! ” said Jacques Collin. “ I tell 
you they rob us of our intellects ; ” and he cast a look of 
sovereign contempt on Theodore. 

“ You were gone, and I had no one to look to,” 
replied the Corsican. 

“Do you love the girl?” asked Jacques Collin, 
somewhat moved by that appeal. 

“ Ah ! if I live, I ’d rather follow 3’ou than her.” 

“Well, make 3*ourself eas3’ ; I am not named 
Trompe-la-Mort for nothing. I take upon myself to 
save 3^011.” 

“What! my life?” cried the young Corsican, striv- 
ing to raise his swaddled arms to the damp stone roof 
of his dungeon. 

“ M3^ boy, you must be prepared to go back to the 
old galle3’s,” continued Jacques Collin. “That can’t 
be helped : you don’t expect, do you, to be crowned 
with roses, like the carnival bull? If we are booked 
for Rochefort, it is because they want to get rid of ns 
and kill us. But T ’ll try to get you sent to Toulon ; 
there you can easily escape, and come back to Paris, 
where I will set you up in some nice little business.” 

A sigh such as those inflexible walls had seldom 
heard, — a sigh of happiness for deliverance beat upon 
the stone, which echoed back the sound to the ears of 
the bewildered Bibi-Lupin. 


288 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ See the result of the absolution that I have prom- 
ised him,” said J acques Collin to the detective. These 
Corsicans, monsieur, are full of faith ! But he is as in- 
nocent of this crime as a child unborn ; and I shall now- 
attempt to save him.” 

“ God be with you, monsieur I’abbe,” said Theodore 


in French. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


289 


VI. 


MADEMOISELLE COLLIN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE. 

Trompe-la-Mort, more priestl3^ than ever, hastened 
out of the condemned cell and through the corridor, 
to the director’s office, where he pla3*ed horror to Mon- 
sieur Gault most effectivel3\ 

“ Monsieur le directeur, the 3’oung man is innocent; 
he has revealed to me the guilt3’ person. He was about 
to die for a point of honor, like a true Corsican! I 
pray 3^00 ask the attorne3’-general to grant me an in- 
terview for five minutes. Monsieur de Granville will 
not refuse to listen immediatel3’ to a Spanish priest 
who has suffered so much himself from the mistakes 
of French law.” 

“ I will go at once,” replied Monsieur Gault, to the 
great astonishment of all present. 

“ But,” said Jacques Collin, “ will 3’ou kindl3' have 
me sent back to that yard in the mean time. There 
is a man there who had begun to confess himself when 
you sent for me ; I desire to complete his conversion. 
Ah ! those men have hearts.” 

This speech produced a stir among all the spectators 
of the extraordinary scene. The gendarmes, the turn- 

10 


290 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

ke^^s, the jailers, Sanson himself, and his assistant who 
was waiting to “ set up the machine,” as the prison 
term is, — these persons, whom all ordinary emotions 
left untouched, were moved by a curiosity that is 
readily conceivable. 

At this moment the noise of an equipage with spir- 
ited horses, pulled up on the quay before the outer 
gate of the Conciergerie, made itself heard. The car- 
riage door was opened, and the steps let down in a 
manner to imply the arrival of a personage of impor- 
tance. Present!}’’ a lady waving a blue paper presented 
herself at the gate of the guichety followed by a foot- 
man and a chasseur. She was dressed in black, but 
very magnificently ; a veil was over her bonnet, and 
she was stanching her tears with an embroidered 
handkerchief. 

Jacques Collin instantly recognized Asia, or to give 
the woman at last her right name, Jacqueline Collin, 
his aunt. This wicked old woman, worthy of her 
nephew, held in her hand a permit granted the even- 
ing before to the w'aiting-maid of the Duchesse de 
Maufrigneuse, on the recommendation of the Comte 
de Serizy, to communicate with Lucien de Rubempre 
and the Abbe Don Carlos Herrera so soon as the latter 
should be released from solitary confinement. On this 
order the chief of the department of prisons had writ- 
ten a few lines. The color of the paper was sufficient 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 291 

to imply its importance ; for these permissions, like 
gratis theatre-tickets, differ in fonir and color. 

Consequently the gate-warder opened the two iron 
doors, especiall}" after noticing the plumed chasseur^ 
whose green and gold uniform, as dazzling as that of 
a Russian general, announced an aristocratic visitor 
with a blazon that was almost royal. 

“Ah! my dear abbe,” cried the false great lad}', 
shedding a torrent of tears when she beheld the eccle- 
siastic. “ How could the}" put so saintly a man here, 
even for a moment?’’ 

The director took the permit and read the words, 
“ On the recommendation of his Excellency the Comte 
de Serizy. 

“Ah! Madame di San-Esteban, Madame la mar- 
quise,” said Carlos Herrera, “ what noble devotion ! ” 

“ Madame, no communication is allowed with the 
prisoners in this place,” said the good old Gault. 

And he himself stopped the advance of the portly 
mass of black moire and lace. 

“ But at this distance,” said Jacques Collin, “ and be- 
fore all present? ” and he cast a circular glance around 
the assembly. 

His aunt, whose dress must have amazed the whole 
office, director, jailers, and gendarmes, was redolent of 
musk. She wore, besides laces worth thousands of 
francs, a black cashmere shawl worth six thousand. 


292 The Last Intarnation of Vantrin. 

The chasseur paraded the court-yard of the Conci- 
ergerie with all the insolence of a lacquey who feels 
himself indispensable to a princess. He did not speak 
to the footman, who kept his station near the gate 
which opened upon the quay. 

“What do 3 ’ou wish? what am I to do?” asked 
Madame di San Esteban, in the argot agreed upon 
between the aunt and nephew. 

This argot consisted in giving terminations in ar or 
in or, or in al or in i, so as to make all words, either 
French or argot, unintelligible. It was the diplomatic 
cipher applied to language. 

“Put all the letters in a sure place, take the most ‘ 
compromising, come back in rags to the Salle des Pas- 
perdus and wait my orders.” 

Asia, that is, Jacqueline, knelt down as if to receive 
a benediction, and the false abbe blessed his aunt with 
evangelical unction. 

“ Addio^ marchesa^” he said, adding rapidly in their 
own argot: “ Find Europe and Paccard with the seven 
hundred thousand francs that they filched ; I want them.” 

“ There ’s Paccard,” replied the pious marchesa, 
looking toward the chasseur with tears in her e 3 'es. 

This readiness of comprehension brought not onl 3 ^ 
a smile, but also an expression of surprise to the face 
of a man who could no longer be astonished by any 
one but his aunt. The false marchesa turned toward 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 293 

the witnesses of this singular scene with the manner 
of a woman who is accustomed to take a position in 
the world. 

“ He is in despair at being unable to attend the 
obsequies of his child,” she said in bad French; “ for 
this frightful mistake of the police has brought to light 
his painful secret. I myself am now on my way to 
the mortuary mass. Here, monsieur,” she added to 
Monsieur Gault, giving him a purse full of gold, “ is 
something with which to comfort the poor prisoners.” 

“ Famous move! ” muttered her well-pleased nephew 
in her ear. 

Jacques Collin then followed the jailer, who took him 
back into the preau. 

Bidi-Lupin, in despair, having at last managed to 
attract the attention of the gendarme, to wdiom he 
hemmed significantly^, was now released from the coiv- 
demned cell. But he did not reach the office in time 
to see the great lady’, who had by that time disappeared 
in her brilliant equipage. 

“ Three hundred halles [francs] for the prisoners ! ” 
said the head-jailer, showing Bibi-Lupin the purse which 
Monsieur Gault had given to his clerk. 

“ Let me see. Monsieur Jacomety’,” said Bibi-Lupin. 

The head of the detective police took the purse, 
emptied the gold into his hand, and examined it 
attentively. 


294 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“It is reall}^ gold ! ’’ he said,* “ and the purse is bla- 
zoned. Ah, the scoundrel, how strong he is ! He is 
armed at all points ; he ought to be shot like a dog ! ” 

“ Wb}’ so? ” asked the clerk, taking back the purse. 

“That woman is, no doubt, a thief!” cried Bibi- 
Lupin, stamping with rage on the stone pavement of 
the guichet. 

These words produced a sensation among the specta- 
tors grouped at a little distance from Monsieur Sanson, 
who still stood leaning with his back against the huge 
porcelain stove placed in the centre of that vaulted 
hall, where he awaited the order to make the criminal’s 
“toilette” and set up the guillotine on the place de 
Greve. 

As soon as Jacques Collin re-entered the preau, he 
walked toward the three fanandels. 

“ What have 3’ou got ahead of you? ” he said to La 
Pouraille. 

“ I’m done for,” replied the murderer, whom Jacques 
Collin led aside into a corner. “ What I want now is 
a safe friend.” 

“Why?” 

La Pouraille related in argot his various crimes, 
ending with the details of the murder and robbery of 
the Crottats. 

“I respect j'ou,” said Jacques Collin; the affair 
was well done. But you seem to me to have committed 
one mistake.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 295 
“ What was that? ” 

“ The matter once accomplished, you ought to have 
got a Russian passport, disguised yourself as a Russian 
prince, bought a carriage with a coat of arms, gone 
boldh’ to a banker and deposited 3 *our gold, and asked 
for a letter of credit on Hamburg, and then embarked 
for Mexico. With two hundred and eight}" thousand 
francs in hand, a clever fellow like you could go where 
he chose and do as he liked, you simpleton ! ” 

“ Ah ! you can have those ideas because you are ddh ; 
you never lose your head, not you ! But I — ” 

“ Well, well, good advice to a man in your position 
is broth for the dead ! ” replied Jacques Collin, casting 
one of his compelling glances on the convict. 

“ True,” said La Pouraille, doubtfully ; but give 
me the broth all the same. If it can’t nourish me, I 
can make a foot-bath of it.” 

“ Here you are in tlie hands of the Cicogne^ with 
five robberies, under aggravated circumstances, and 
three murders to answer for, — the last of which con- 
cerns two rich bourgeois. Jurors don’t like to have 
the bourgeois killed. You will certainly be gerhe a la 
passe ; there ’s not the slightest hope for you.” 

“ So they all tell me,” replied La Pouraille, ruefully. 
“ My aunt Jacqueline, with whom I ’ve just had a 
bit of a task before the whole greffe, and who is, 
you know, la mere des fa7iandels, told me that the 


296 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Cicogne wanted to get rid of you because you were 
dangerous.’’ 

“ But,” said La Pouraille, with a naivete which 
proves how imbued robbers are with a sense of their 
natural right to rob, “ I am rich now, why should they 
fear me an}" longer ? ” 

“We have n’t time to talk philosophy,” replied 
Jacques Collin. “Come back to your situation — ” 

“What do you want to do with me?” asked La 
Pouraille, interrupting his ddh. 

“ You shall see ; a dead dog is worth something.” 

“ For others,” said La Pouraille. 

“I’ll take you into my game,” continued Jacques 
Collin. 

‘‘That’s something,” said the murderer. “What 
next? ” 

“ I don’t ask where your money is, but what you 
want to do with it?” 

La Pouraille watched the impenetrable eye of his ddb 
as the latter continued, coldly : — 

“ Have you some largue you love, or a child, or a 
fanandel to protect? I shall be at liberty very soon, 
and I can do everything for those you wish to benefit.” 

La Pouraille hesitated ; he stood wavering with in- 
decision. Jacques Collin brought forward a 'final 
argument. 

“ Your share in our funds is thirty thousand francs. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 297 

Do you want to leave it to the fanandels^ or will you 
give it to some one else? The money is at hand, and 
I can pay it over to-night to any one you name.” 

La Pouraille let a movement of satisfaction escape 
him. 

“ I have him ! ” thought Jacques Collin. “ But donT 
dawdle ; think ! ” he continued, speaking into La Pou- 
raille’s ear. ^'‘Monvieux^ we haven’t ten minutes to 
ourselves. The attorney-general will send for me ; I 
am to have a conference with him. I hold him, that 
man ! I can wring the neck of the Cicogne ! I am 
certain of saving Theodore.” 

‘ ‘ If 3’ou can save Theodore, my dab^ 3’ou might 
save — ” 

“Don’t waste 3’our spittle,” said Jacques Collin, 
curtl}^ “ Make 3’our will.” 

^‘Well, then,” replied La Pouraille, piteously', “I 
want to leave the monej’ to La Gonore — ” 

“ Tiensf are 3’ou living with the widow of Moise, 
that Jew who was at the head of the rouleurs (swind- 
lers) of the South?” asked Jacques Collin. 

Like all great generals, Trompe-la-Mort knew the 
personnel of all his troops. 

“ Herself,” replied La Pouraille, much flattered. 

“ Prett3’ woman ! ” said Jacques Collin, who un- 
derstood well how to manage his terrible machines. 
“Your largue is shrewd; she knows what’s what,— 


298 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

an accomplished thief, and honest, too. Ha ! so 3’ou 
have strengthened 3’ourself with La Gonore, have 3’ou? 
A man’s a fool to get himself terrer with such a largue 
as that. Idiot ! you ought to have bought a comfort- 
able little business and jogged on together. Et que 
goupine-t-elle? (What is her line of robber3"?)” 

“ She has set up in the rue Sainte-Barbe, where she 
keeps a house.” 

“And 3’ou want to make her 3*our heir? My dear 
fellow, that ’s what all these jades get out of us when 
we are fools enough to love them.” 

“ But don’t give her anything till I ’m tumbled 
over.” 

“ Sacredh' not,” said Jacques Collin, in a serious 
tone. “But t\iQ fanandels^ nothing to them?” 

“ Nothing; they sold me,” replied La Pouraille 
vindictivel3\ 

“Who sold 3'Ou! Do 3’ou want me to revenge 
3’ou?” asked Jacques Collin, quickly, endeavoring to 
rouse the last sentiment that makes such hearts as 
these vibrate in crucial moments. “ W^ho knows, my 
old fanandel^ whether by avenging 3’ou, I could n’t 
make 3’our peace with the Cicognef^' 

La Pouraille looked at his dab with a stupefied air 
of happiness. 

“ But,” replied the dab to that speaking expression, 
“I’m playing mislocq just now for Theodore. After 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 299 

that farce succeeds, I am capable of rhucli else for m3' 
friends, — and you are a friend of mine, old man ! ” 

“ If I see that you can get that ceremony for poor 
little Theodore put off onlj’ for a, time. I’ll do as 3*011 
wish, there ! ” 

“That’s done alread3' ; I am certain of saving his 
sorbonne from the claws of the Cicogne. Those who 
want to se desenflacquer (get out of this scrape), La 
Pouraille, must all grasp hands. No one can act alone.” 

‘ ‘ That ’s true ! ” cried the murderer. 

Confidence being thus established and La Pouraille’s 
faith in his dab becoming fanatic, he hesitated no 
longer ; he revealed the secret of his accomplices, — 
a secret most carefull3’ kept up to the present time. 
This was all that Jacques Collin wanted to know. 

“ Here’s the balle (secret),” said La Pouraille. 
“ Ruffard, Bibi-Lupin’s agent, went thirds with me and 
Godet in the poupon (robbery long planned). 

“ Arrachelaine ? ” cried Jacques Collin, giving Ruf- 
fard his galle3' name. 

“ Yes. The villains sold me because I knew where 
their share was hidden, but they did not know about 
mine.” 

“You grease my boots, old fellow!” said Jacques 
Collin. 

“ How so? ” 

“Now,” replied the dab, “see what you gain by 


300 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

trusting me. I make your vengeance a part of the 
game I am going to play. I don’t ask to know where 
your money is ; you can tell me that at the last mo- 
ment ; but tell me now all about Ruffard and Godet.” 

“ You are, and you alwa3*s will be, our duh ; I shall 
have no further secrets from you. monej^ is in 

the profonde (cellar) of La Gonore’s house.” 

“Are not 3’ou afraid to trust 3’our largue?^' 

“ Yah ! she does n’t know anything about it,” replied 
La Pouraille. “I made La Gonore drunk, — though 
she ’s a woman who would n’t sa3" a word la tete dans 
la lunette (in the last extremit3’). But so much gold, 
you know ! ” 

“ Yes, that turns tlie milk of the purest conscience,” 
replied Jacques Collin. 

“ So I could work without a luisant (eye) upon me ; 
the hens were all roosting. I buried the gold three 
feet down behind the wine bottles ; and I put a la3’er 
of cobblestones and mortar above it. 

“Good!” ejaculated Jacques Collin, “Where did 
the other two hide theirs?” 

“ Ruffard has his fade (share of a robbery) at La 
Gonore’s, in the poor woman’s own room ; that ’s how 
he holds her ; he can prove she is an accomplice in 
receiving goods and send her to Saint-Lazare for the 
rest of her days.” 

“ Ah ! the scoundrel I How the raille (police) trains 
3’ou to rob 1 ” cried Jacques Collin. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 301 

“ Godet has put his fade with his sister, a clear- 
starcher, an honest girl who might get five years 
under lock and key without knowing why. He took 
up the tiles of the floor, put the monej^ under, and 
cleared out.” 

“ Do you know what I want of you? ” said Jacques 
Collin, suddenlj’, casting one of his magnetic glances 
on La Pouraille. 

“ What?” 

“ I want 3*ou to take upon j^our own shoulders 
Theodore’s affair.” 

La Pouraille gave a singular shrug with those shoul- 
ders, but instantly returned to a posture of obedience 
under the fixed glance of the dab's eye. 

‘‘What! you snort already? Do you mean to 
thwart my game? Four murders or three, what’s the 
difference ? ” 

“ Not much, perhaps.” 

“ the meg of the fanandels / 3'ou have n’t an}' 
raisine in your mrmiehels (blood in 3’our veins). And 
I, who was thinking of saving 3’ou 1 ” 

“How?” 

“Idiot! if 3’ou offer to return the money to the 
famil}’, you ’ll get off with the pre for life. I would n’t 
give a straw for your sorhonne if the mone}' is kept ; 
but don’t 3’ou see, you fool, that 3’ou have the whole 
seven hundred thousand francs in your hands.” 


302 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Dab, dab cried La Pouraille, in an ecstasy of 

joy. 

“ And besides that,” continued Jacques Collin, “ we 
throw the murders upon Rulfard, and that will put an 
end to Bibi-Lupin. I have him I ” 

La Pouraille stood stupefied at the idea, rigid as a 
statue, his eyes widening. In prison for the last three 
months, about to appear before the court of assizes, 
advised by his friends in La Force, to whom he had not 
spoken of his accomplices, he was so wholly without 
hope after the preliminaiy examination into his crimes 
that such a plan of defence had never entered his im- 
prisoned mind. This flicker of hope now made him 
almost imbecile. 

“ Can Ruffard and Godet have fait la noce (made a 
debauch of it) ? Do you think their jaunets (yellow 
boys) have breathed the air?” 

“ They dare not. The villains are waiting till I ’m 
mown,” replied La Pouraille. “ That ’s what my 
lafgue sent me word by La Biffe when she came to 
see Le Biffon.” 

“ Well, we shall have their fades within twenty-four 
hours ! ” cried Jacques Collin. “ Those scoundrels 
can’t make restitution as you can ; you ’ll get off as 
white as snow, and they ’ll be red with all the blood. I 
shall make 3*011 out an honest fellow misled by them. 
I have enough of your money in my hands to buy you 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 303 

an alibi on the other charges, and once in the old pre 
— for, of course, you will have to go back there — you 
can manage to escape. It is a vile life, to be sure, but 
at any rate it is life.” 

La Pouraille’s eyes expressed an inward delirium. 

“ Ah, old fellow ! ” said Jacques Collin, intoxicating 
his fanandel with hope, “ seven hundred thousand 
francs is power — ” 

“Da, 

“I’ll dazzle the attorney-general with it. Ha! 
Ruffard dansera (shall die of this) ; he ’s a raille to 
demolish. Bibi-Lupin is fried ! ” 

“ Then it ’s settled ! ” cried La Pouraille, with savage 
jo}’. “ Order, and I obe}*.” 

He pressed Jacques Collin b\’ the arm, with tears in 
his eyes, for it now seemed possible to him to save his 
head. 

“But that’s not all,” said Jacques Collin. The 
Cicogne is slow of digestion, especiall}' if there ’s a 
return of fever (revelation of new facts). The thing 
to be done now is to servir de belle une largue (bring a 
false charge against a woman).” 

“ How? and what ’s the good of that? ” 

“ Help me, and you shall see,” replied Trompe-la- 
Mort. 

Jacques Collin then related briefly' the circumstances 
of the crime committed by Theodore, and showed La 


304 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Pouraille the necessity of finding some woman who 
would consent to play the part of Ginetta. Then he 
went to Le Biffon, followed by La Pouraille, now 
supremely joj'ful. 

“ I know how 3’ou love La Biffe,” said Jacques Collin. 

The glance cast b}' Le Biffon was a dreadful poem. 

“ What will she do while 3’Ou are at the pref ” 

A tear moistened Le Biflbn’s ferocious e3’es. 

“Well, suppose I get her locked up at the Madelon- 
nettes [female prison] for a 3’ear, which will just about 
- cover the time of 3’our trial, 3’our return to the /?re, and 
your escape ? ’’ 

“ You can’t do that miracle ; she is nique de meche 
(not halves, without complicit3’) said La Biffe’s lover. 

“ Ah, m3" Biffon ! ” cried La Pouraille, “our dab is 
more powerful than megT 

“ What is 3’our password with her? ” asked Jacques 
Collin, with the assurance of a master who will brook 
no refusal. 

“ Sorgue a Pantin (night in Paris) ; sa3" that, and 
she ’ll know you come from me. And if you want her 
to obe3" 3’ou, show her a thune de cinq balles (five-franc 
piece), and sa3" the word ‘ Tondif.^ ” 

“ She will be condemned at La Pouraille’s trial, and 
released for confessing the matter after a 3’ear of ombre 
(shade, prison),” said Collin, sententiousl3", with a 
glance at La Pouraille. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 305 

La Poiiraille understood without further words the 
plan of his ddh^ and promised him a look to decide 
Le Biffon to help it b}' persuading La Biffe to accept a 
false complicity in the crime he was about to take upon 
his own shoulders. 

“ Adieu, my sons. You will soon hear that I have 
saved Theodore from Chariot’s clutches,” said Trompe- 
la-Mort. “ Yes, Chariot was in the office with his 
men waiting to make Theodore’s ‘ toilette,’ as I passed 
through it There!” he added presently, •“ they are 
coming to fetch me now ; the dab of the Cicogne (at- 
torne^’-general) has sent for me.” 

A jailer came through the gate and made a sign to 
this extraordinary man, to whom the danger of the 
3 ’oung Corsican and the idea of being able to save 
him, had restored the savage power with which he had 
warred against societ}’ for a lifetime. 

Here is the proper moment to sa^" that when the 
bod}* of Lucien was taken from him, after those hours 
of mental torture, Jacques Collin had decided b}" a 
might}* resolution, to attempt a last incarnation, not 
into a being as in Lucien, but into a thing. He took 
the course which Napoleon so fatally took when he 
entered the boat that carried him to the “ Bellero- 
phon.” By a singular combination of circumstances 
all things aided this genius of evil and corruption in 
his enterprise. 


20 


306 


Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


VIL 

MADAME CAMUSOT PAYS THREE VISITS. 

Though the unexpected denouement of this criminal 
life may lose somewhat of the marvellous (which in our 
day cannot be presented except by improbabilities 
which the mind rejects), it is necessar}', before we 
enter, with Jacques Collin, the office of the attorney- 
general, to follow Madame Camusot in the visits which 
she made to certain persons while these events were 
taking place at the Conciergerie. One of the obliga- 
tions which the historian of manners and morals should 
never disregard is that of not spoiling truth b}’ ar- 
rangements apparentl}’ dramatic, above all when truth 
has taken pains to become romantic. The social nature, 
in Paris especially, involves such chances and changes, 
such entanglement of phases and events, all so capri- 
cious, that the imagination of tale-makers is constantly 
surpassed. The boldness of the Real produces com- 
binations that are forbidden to Art ; and so unreal and 
perhaps indecent do they often seem that a writer is 
forced to soften, prune, and even expurgate them. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 307 

Madame Camusot endeavored to make her morning 
toilet one of good taste, — a rather difficult matter for 
the wife of a judge who had lived the greater part of 
her life in the provinces. It was important, however, 
not to la}" herself open to the criticism of the Mar- 
quise d’Espard and the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, 
whom she proposed to visit between eight and nine 
o’clock in the morning. Amelie-Cecile Camusot, though 
nee Thirion, let us hasten to sa}', succeeded partially. 
Is not that, in the matter of female dress, to fail twice? 

People little know the utility of Parisian women to 
ambitious men of all kinds ; they are as necessary in 
the great world as they are in the world of robbers, 
where, as we have just seen, they play an enormous 
part. For instance, suppose a man to be forced to 
speak within a given time to that all-powerful individ- 
ual under the Restoration, the Keeper of the Seals, 
or else to be pushed back in the arena and remain in 
obscurity. Take a man in the most favorable circum- 
stances, — a judge. He is obliged to get speech with the 
head of a department, or a private secretary, or the gen- 
eral secretary, and prove to him that there is some real 
reason why he should have an immediate audience. 
The Keeper of the Seals is never visible at a moment’s 
notice. In the middle of the day, if he is not at the 
Chamber, he is at a council of ministers, or signing 
papers, or giving audience. In the morning he sleeps. 


308 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

no one knows where. In the evening he has both his 
public and his private avocations. If all judges could 
claim audiences under any pretext whatever the chief 
law officer would be overwhelmed. The purpose and 
expedienc}’ of an interview is therefore subjected to the 
judgment of an intermediaiy power, who becomes an 
obstacle, a door to open, even if he is not already 
pledged to some other competitor. But a woman ! 
she goes in search of another woman ; she enters even 
bedrooms immediately ; she awakens the curiositj' of 
the mistress, sometimes that of the maid, — if the mis- 
tress appears to be under the spur of some great in- 
terest or pressing necessit3\ Call female power the 
Marquise d’Espard ; this woman writes a little per- 
fumed note which her footman carries to the minister’s 
valet. The minister is caught by the billet as soon 
as he wakes, and he reads it at once. If he has affairs 
of interest on hand, he is delighted to pay a visit to 
one of the queens of Paris, a power of the faubourg 
Saint-Germain, one of the favorites of Madame, or of 
the dauphiness, or the king. Casimir Perier, the only 
real minister the revolution of Jul}^ produced, left all 
to pa}' a visit to a former first gentleman of the Bed- 
chamber to Charles X. This theoiy explains the re- 
sult of Madame Camusot’s visits. 

“ Madame, Madame Camusot on a pressing matter, 
about which inadame knows,” said the waiting-maid of 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 309 

the Marquise d’Espard to her mistress whom she sup- 
posed to be awake. 

The marquise called out that Madame Camusot was 
to be introduced at once. The judge’s wife obtained 
immediate attention when she opened her business in 
these, w^ords : — 

“ Madame la marquise, we are ruined for having 
avenged you.” 

‘‘How is that, my dear?” replied the marquise, 
looking at Madame Camusot in the half-light produced 
by the opening of her bedroom door. “ Wh3’, you are 
charming this morning, with that prett}’ little bonnet ! 
Where do you get such shapes?” 

“ Madame, you are very good. But do you know 
that the manner in which Camusot examined Lucien de 
Rubempre reduced the young man to despair, and he 
has hanged himself in prison?” 

“ What will Madame de Serizy do? ” cried the mar- 
quise, pretending ignorance in order to have the matter 
told to her again. 

“ Alas, they say she is going mad ! ” replied Amelie. 
“Ah, madame ! if 3'ou would onlj’ ask the Keeper of 
the Seals to summon m3’ husband from the Palais im- 
mediatel3’, b3’ a courier, the minister would hear strange 
mysteries which he would certainl3’ wdsh to tell to the 
king. In that wa3’ Camusot’s enemies will be reduced 
to silence.” 


310 The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 

“ Who are Camusot’s enemies?” asked the marquise. 

“ Wh}’, the attorne 3 ’-general, and now the Comte de 
Serizy.” 

^^Ver}^ good, my dear,” replied Madame d’Espard, 
who owed her defeat in her shameful suit against her 
husband to Messieurs de Granville and de Serizy. 
“ I ’ll defend you. I don’t forget either my friends or 
my enemies.” 

Slie rang, ordered the curtains opened, and a flood of 
light poured into the room. Then she asked for her 
desk, and rapidl}^ scribbled a little note. 

“ Let Godet take a horse and carry this note at once 
to the Chancellerie ; there is no answer,” she said to 
her maid. 

The maid left the room hastil}*, but she lingered out- 
side the door for a few moments. 

“You say there are mysteries?” said Madame d’Es- 
pard. Tell me about them, my dear. Clotilde de 
Grandlieu is mixed up in the affair, is n’t she ? ” 

“ Madame la marquise will hear all from his Excel- 
lency ; my husband has told me nothing, except that 
he had incurred great danger. It would be better for 
us that Madame de Serizy should die than remain 
insane.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” said the marquise ; “ but she was 
already half-crazy.” 

Women of the world by their various ways of pro- 


The Last Iifiearnation of Vautrin. 311 

iiouncing the same words will reveal to attentive ob- 
servers the infinite extent and variation of those notes 
of music. The soul passes wholl}' into the voice 
as well as into the e3’es ; it imprints itself on the 
air as in the' light, — the two elements in which the 
larynx and the e\'es have pla}'. In the accent of those 
words, “ Poor woman ! ” the marquise revealed the 
contentment of her satisfied hatred, the happiness of 
triumph. Ah, how man}’ evils she had wished to 
Lucien’s protectress ! Vengeance, which survives the 
death of a hated object, and is never quenched, inspires 
gloom}’ fear. Madame Camusot, whose own nature 
was harsh, spiteful, and quarrelsome, was shocked. 
Finding nothing to say, she was silent. 

‘‘ Madame de Maufrigneuse told me that Leontine 
had gone to the prison,” continued Madame d’Espard. 
“ The dear duchess was in despair, for she is weak 
enough to be fond of Madame de Serizy. But that ’s 
conceivable, for they both adored that little fool of a 
Lucien ; nothing unites, or disunites, two women like 
paying their devotions at the same altar.” 

“They tried their best to save Lucien, madame ; 
and it is because my husband did his duty that this 
danger threatens us. But he will tell all to the Keeper 
of the Seals. An examining judge is compelled to 
question prisoners privately within a time limited by 
law. It was absolutely necessary to examine Lucien ; 


312 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

the miserable youth did not understand that the inquiry 
was only formal, and he instantly made confession.” 

“He was always a fool, and very insolent,’ said 
Madame d’Espard, curtly. 

The wife of the judge kept silence. 

“ Though we lost our case in the matter of the in- 
junction, it was not Camusot’s fault, and I shall never 
forget his services,” said Madame d’Espard, after a 
pause.. “ It was Lucien, and Messieurs de Serizy, 
Bauvan, and Granville, who defeated us. With time, 
God will be on my side. See ! alread}^ those people are 
unhappy. Now, don’t worry yourself. I will send the 
Chevalier d’Espard to the Keeper of the Seals to hasten 
him in sending for your husband, if you think it 
useful — ” 

“ Oh, yes, madame ! ” 

“ Listen ! ” said the marquise. “ I promise you the 
decoration of the Legion of honor immediately, — 
to-morrow ! That will be a public testimony to your 
husband’s conduct in this affair. Yes, it will be an 
additional blow on Lucien ; it will show that he was 
guilty. People don’t hang themselves for pleasure ! 
Well, adieu, my dear.” 

Ten minutes later Madame Camusot was entering 
the bedroom of the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, 
who was not asleep, though she had gone to bed at one 
o’clock. However insensible to feeling duchesses may 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 313 

be, these women, even if their hearts are cased in 
stucco, cannot behold a friend in the parox3’sms of 
madness without receiving a most painful impression. 
Moreover, the intimacy between Lucien and Diane, 
though slackened for the last eighteen months, had left 
memories enough in the mind of the duchess to make 
his dreadful death a terrible shock to her. Diane had 
seen a vision all night long of that beautiful being, so 
charming, so poetic, who knew so well how to make 
love, hanging, as Leontine had described him to her 
with the tones and gestures of delirium. She herself 
had eloquent, electrifying letters from Lucien, compar- 
able to those written b}' Mirabeau to Sophie, but more 
literary, more carefully composed ; for Lucien’s letters 
were dictated b\" the most violent of all passions, — 
vanitj’ ! 

‘‘ And he died in a vile prison ! ” she was saying to 
herself, clasping the letters in her hands with horror, as 
her maid softly’ tapped on the bedroom door. 

“ Madame Camusot, on a matter of great impor- 
tance, which concerns Madame la duchesse,” said the 
woman. 

Diane sat upright, much startled. 

Oh ! ” she said, looking at Amelie, who assumed a 
face of anxiet}^ as she glanced at the papers in Diane’s 
hands, — oh, I know what 3'ou are here for! My let- 
ters ! 3’es, m3’ letters I ” 


'314 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

And she fell back upon the sofa. She suddenly re- 
membered having replied to Lucien in his own ke}*, 
chanting the poesy of the man as he had chanted the 
glories of the woman ; and in what dithyrambics ! 

“ Alas, yes, madame ! and I have come to save 3 ’ou 
from their consequences. Recover 3 ’ourself, dress 
quickl 3 r, and let us go to the Duchesse de Grandlieu ; 
fortunately for you, you are not the onl}’ one compro- 
mised in this matter.” 

“ But Leontine burned up yesterdaj’ at the Palais all 
the letters seized among poor Lucien’s papers, — at 
least, so I was 'told.” 

“ But, madame, Lucien had a double in Jacques 
Collin,” cried the judge’s wife. “ You forget that 
wicked companionship, which was the only cause, 
really, of the death of that charming and regrettable 
young man. That Machiavelli of the galleys has not 
lost his head. Monsieur Camusot is certain from some- 
thing that occurred that this monster keeps in some 
safe place the most compromising of the letters ad- 
dressed to his — ” 

“ Friend,” said the duchess, quickly. “ You are 
right, my dear ; we must go and take counsel with the 
Grandlieus. We are all interested in the affair; and 
Monsieur de Serizy will lend us a hand.” 

Danger has, as we saw in the scenes at the Con- 
ciergerie, a virtue over the soul as great as that of 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 315 

powerful reagents upon the bod}’ ; it is a moral Voltaic 
batter}’. Perhaps the day is not far distant when some 
discoverer will seize the method by which feeling con- 
denses itself chemically into fluid, — possibly that of 
electricity. 

Diane found her garments, and went about her 
toilet with the celerity of a grisette who acts as. her 
own waiting-maid. This was so surprising that the 
duchess’s maid stood motionless for a moment watch- 
ing her mistress in her chemise, which allowed the 
judge’s wife to see through a mist of transparent linen 
a white body as perfect as that of Canova’s Venus. It 
was like a jewel in its tissue paper. 

“You are the most beautiful- woman I have ever 
seen ! ” cried Amelie. 

“ Madame has n’t her equal,” said the maid. 

“ Nonsense, Josette ! hold your tongue,” said the 
duchess. “ Have you a carriage here?” she asked of 
Madame Camusot, as she finished dressing. “ Come, 
my dear; we will talk as we drive along;” and the 
duchess ran down the great staircase of the hotel de 
Cadignan, putting on her gloves as she went along, — a 
thing that was never before seen. 

“ To the h6tel de Grandlieu, and quickly,” she said 
to one of her servants, signing to him to get up 
behind. 

The footman hesitated, for the vehicle was a hackney- 
coach. 


316 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Ah ! Madame la duchesse, why did n’t you tell me 
that 3 ’oung man had letters from you? If I had known 
that, Camusot would have acted veiy dilferentlj’.” 

“I entirely forgot it,” replied the duchess, Leon- 
tine’s condition has so filled mj’ mind. The poor 
woman was half-crazy before yesterday, and you can 
imagine the effect upon her of that fatal event. Ah, 
my dear, what a morning we had! We were dragged, 
both of us, by a horrid old woman — an old-clothes 
dealer, but a maitresse-femme — into that evil-smelling, 
bloody place the}' call the palace of Justice. I could n’t 
help saying to her, ‘ I feel like falling on my knees, and 
crying out, as Madame de Nucingen did in one of those 
frightful storms of the Mediterranean, “ O God ! save 
me now, if never again I ” ’ Certainly, these last two 
days will shorten my life I How silly we are to write 
letters ! But tlien, one has a heart, and we get pages 
which set it on fire through the eyes ; it flames up, 
prudence flies away, and we answer — ” • 

“ Why answer when you can speak? ” said Madame 
Camusot. 

“Oh,” said the duchess, proudly, “it is so fine to 
commit one’s self! That’s a pleasure of the soul.” 

“ Beautiful women,” said Madame Camusot, mod- 
estly, “ are excusable ; they have more occasions than 
we to compromise themselves.” 

The duchess laughed. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 317 

‘‘Yes, we are much too generous,” she said. “In 
future I shall do as that horrid Madame d’Espard 
does.” 

“ What is that? ” asked Amelie, with curiosity. 

“ She writes a thousand love-letters — ” ' 

“ As many as that ! ” cried Madame Camusot, inter- 
rupting the duchess. 

“Yes, but there is n’t a compromising phrase in the 
whole of them.” 

“ You would be incapable of such coldness,” re- 
sponded Amelie. 

“ But I have vowed never again to write letters. 
In fact, I never did write, in all m3’ life, except to that 
iinhapp3’ Lucien. I shall preserve his letters as long 
as I live ! M3’ dear, the3’ are fire itself, — and one 

wants that sort of thing sometimes.” 

“But suppose the3’ are found?” said the Camusot, 
with a frightened gesture. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! I should sa3" the3’ were parts of a novel. I 
copied them, my dear, and burned the originals.” 

“ Oh, madame ! as a reward for m3’ little services 
let me read them.” 

“Well, perhaps I will,” said the duchess. “And 
then 3'ou ’ll see that he did not write in the same wa3’ 
to Leontine.” 

The last words were the woman, — the woman of all 
times and all countries. 


318 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Like the frog in La Fontaine’s fable, Madame 
Camusot’s skin was bursting with pleasure at the honor 
of entering the Grandlieu mansion in company with 
the beautiful and famous Diane de Maufrigneuse. She 
was about to form one of those connections so ne- 
cessary to ambition. Already she heard herself called 
“ Madame la presidente.” She felt the ineffable joy 
of triumphing over immense obstacles, the chief of 
which was the incapacity of her husband, secret as 
yet to others, but well-known to her. To make an 
inferior man a success ! this, to a woman as it is to 
kings, is a pleasure that seduces great actors, that of 
acting a bad play for the hundredth lime. It is, as we 
may say, the intoxication of egotism, the saturnalia of 
power ! Power cannot prove its force to itself unless 
by the singular abuse of crowning some absurdit}" with 
the palm of success, and in that way insulting genius, 
which is the only force which absolute power cannot 
attain. The promotion of the horse of Caligula, that 
imperial farce, has had, and ever will have, innumer- 
able representations. 

In a few moments Diane and Amelie had passed 
from the elegant disorder of the beautiful Diane’s bed- 
room, to the correctness of a severe and grandiose lux- 
ury in the home of the Duchesse de Grandlieu. That 
extremely pious Portuguese lad}’ always rose at eight 
in the morning to hear mass in the little church of 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 319 

Sainte-Valere, a chapel of Saint-Thomas d’Aquin, then 
standing on the esplanade of the Invalides. The con- 
gregation of the little chapel, which is now demolished, 
has removed to the rue de Bourgogne, while awaiting 
the erection of a gothic church, which is to be, they 
saj’, dedicated to Sainte-Clotilde. 

At the first words whispered into the Duchesse de 
Grandlieu’s ear by Diane de Maufrigneuse, that excel- 
lent woman rose and went into the duke’s stud}^, from 
which she soon returned followed by her husband. The 
duke gave Madame Camusot one of those rapid looks 
b 3 ' which great seigneurs analyze a whole existence 
and often the soul itself. Amelie’s costume aided him 
not a little in penetrating that bourgeoise life from 
Mantes to Alengon, and from Alen 9 on to Paris. 

Ah ! if the judge’s wife had been aware of this fac- 
ulty of dukes, she could not have borne graciously that 
politely ironical glance, in which happily she saw noth- 
ing but politeness. Ignorance shares the privileges of 
shrewdness. 

“ This is Madame Camusot, the daughter of Thirion, 
one of the cabinet ushers,” said the duchesse to her 
husband. 

The duke bowed very politely, and his face lost 
something of its gravity. His valet, for whom he had 
rung, presented himself. 

“ Go to the rue Honore-Chevalier ; take a carriage. 


320 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Ring at a small door at number 10 . You will sa}’ to 
the servant who opens the door that I beg his master 
to come here ; if the master is at home, 3’ou will bring 
him back with 3’ou. Use m3’ name and )'ou will have 
no difficult3’ ; tiy not to be more than fifteen minutes 
in doing all this.” 

Another valet, that of the duchess, appeared as the 
first one left the room. 

“ Go to the Due de Chaulieu’s and send in this 
card.” 

The duke gave the man a card folded in a certain 
manner. , When these two intimates wished to meet 
immediately on some pressing, or mysterious affair, 
about which they preferred not to write, the3’ notified 
one another in this wa3’. Thus we see how customs 
resemble each other in all stages of society, and differ 
onl3’ in manners, methods, and shades. The great world 
has its argot, but there it is called style. 

‘^Are 3’ou veiy sure, madame, of the existence of 
these letters said to be written b3’ Mademoiselle de 
Grandlieu to that 3*oung man?” asked the duke. 

“ I have not seen them, but I fear they exist,” she 
replied, trembling. 

“ M3^ daughter cannot have written anything she 
would not acknowledge,” exclaimed the duchess. 

“Poor duchess!” thought Diane, giving the duke 
a glance that made him tremble. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 321 

What do you think, m 3 ’ dear little Diane ? ” he 
whispered in her ear, taking her aside into the recess 
of a window. 

“ Clotilde was so in love with Liicien, dear, that she 
gave him an appointment before her departure. If it 
had n’t been for that little Lenoncourt she might pos- 
sibl}' have run awa}" with him in the forest of Fontaine- 
bleau. I know that Lucien wrote passionate letters to 
Clotilde, enough to turn the head of a saint. We are 
three daughters of Eve in the toils of tha serpent of 
correspondence . ” 

The duke and Diane returned toward the duchess 
and Madame Camusot, who were talking in a low 
voice. Amelie, following a hint given to her b 3 ’ the 
Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, was posing as a devote to 
gain the good-will of the pious Portuguese. 

“We are at the mere}" of an escaped convict ! ” said 
the duke, with a curious movement of his shoulders. 
“ This is what comes of receiving in one’s house per- 
sons of whom we are not absolutel}’ sure. Before 
admitting any one, we ought to know his famih’, his 
fortune, and all his antecedents.” 

That sentence is the moral of this tale from the aris- 
tocratic point of view. 

“ Well, the thing is done,” said the Duchesse de 
Maufrigneuse. “ Let us think now of saving that 
poor Madame de Seriz}’ and Clotilde and myself.” 

21 


322 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ We must wait for Henri. I have sent for him ; 
but all depends on the person whom Gentil has gone 
to fetch. God grant that he ma}’ be in Paris ! Ma- 
dame,” he said, addressing Madame Camusot, “ I thank 
you for having thought of our interests.” 

This was Madame Camusot’s dismissal. The daugh- 
ter of the cabinet usher knew enough to understand 
the duke, and she rose ; but the Duchesse de Mau- 
frigneuse, with that bewitching grace which won for 
her so many friends among all classes, took Amelie 
by the hand and presented her in a certain manner to 
the duke and duchess. 

“ For my own sake,” she said, “ and not because 
she has been up since dawn endeavoring to save us all, 
I ask you for something more than a mere remem- 
brance of my little Madame Camusot. In the first 
place, she has already rendered me services I can 
never forget ; and, besides that, she is absolutely de- 
voted to our cause, both she and her husband. I have 
promised to advance her Camusot, and I beg 3 'ou to 
protect him, in the first instance, for my sake.” 

“ You did not need this recommendation,” said the 
duke to Madame Camusot. “ The Grandlieus never 
forget the services that are rendered to them. Before 
long, all persons attached to the king will have an oc- 
casion to distinguish themselves ; devotion will be 
asked of them. Your husband shall be put in the 
breach.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. . 323 

Madame Camusot retired, proud, happy, and swelling 
almost to suffocation with delight. She returned home 
triumphant. She applauded herself; she scoffed at the 
enmity of the attorne3’-general. She even said to her- 
self, “ Suppose we get him dismissed? ” 

It was time that Madame Camusot retired, for as she 
left the house the Due de Chaulieu, one of the king’s 
faA^orites, encountered her on the portico. 

“ Henri,” cried the Due de Grandlieu, as soon as his 
.friend was announced, “go to the chateau, I entreat 
you, and try to speak to the king about a matter I want 
to confide to 3 011.” 

Then he drew him into the window where he had 
already talked with the heedless and gracious Diane. 
From time to time the Due de Chaulieu glanced fur- 
tively at the livel3’ duchess, who, while talking with the 
pious duchess and allowing herself to be lectured, re- 
turned the duke’s glances with interest. 

“ Dear child,” said the Due de Grandlieu, when the 
private conference was over, “ do be a little more care- 
ful ! Come,” he added, taking Diane’s hands, promise 
me to remember appearances. Don’t compromise your- 
self again ; never write letters. Letters, my dear, have 
caused as many private troubles as the3’ have public 
evils. What might be pardonable in a 3’oung girl like 
Clotilde, in love for the first time, is inexcusable 


324 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ An old grenadier who has been under fire ! ” said 
the duchess, making a face at the duke. This joke and 
its attendant grimace brought a smile to the troubled 
faces of two dukes, and even to that of the excellent 
Duchesse de Grandlieu. “But it is four whole years 
since I have written a love-letter ! Are we saved ? ” 
continued Diane, who hid a real anxiety under her 
playfulness. 

“ Not 3"et,” replied the Due de Chaulieu. “ You 
don’t know how difficult it is to commit an arbitral^ 
act. For a constitutional king, it is like the infidelity 
of a married woman ; it is his adulteiy.” 

“ His pet sin ! ” said the Due de Grandlieu. 

“ Forbidden fruit! ” cried Diane, laughing. “Oh, I 
wish I was he ! I have n’t any of it left, — that fruit ! 
I’ve eaten mine all up.” 

“My dear! m3' dear!” said the pious duchess, “3’ou 
are going too far.” 

The two dukes, hearing a carriage pulled up before 
the portico, with the noise which horses make when 
driven at speed, left the two women alone after bowing 
to them, and betook themselves to the duke’s stud3’, 
where was presents introduced the personage from the 
rue Honore-Chevalier, who was no other than the chief 
of the political police, the obscure but all-powerful 
Corentin. 

“ Come in,” said the Due de Grandlieu, “ come in, 
Monsieur de Saint-Denis.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 325 

Corentin, surprised to find so good a memory in the 
duke, entered; and bowed profoundl}' to the two men. 

“The present matter is about the same person, or 
because of him, my dear monsieur,” said the Due de 
Grandlieu. 

“But he is dead,” said Corentin. 

“ He had a companion who is alive,” remarked the 
Duke de Chaulieu, “ a tough companion.’’ 

“ The convict, Jacques Collin,” replied Corentin. 

“ Speak, Ferdinand; relate the facts,” said the Due 
de Chaulieu to his friend. 

“That wretch is much to be feared,” said the Due 
de Grandlieu. “ He seems to hold, in order to obtain 
a ransom, letters which Mesdames de Serizj’ and de 
Maufrigneuse had written to this Lucien Chardon, his 
dependent. Apparentlj' it was systematic on the part 
of that 3’oung man to obtain emotional letters in ex- 
change for his own ; for m}^ daughter. Mademoiselle 
de Grandlieu has written, the}" say, several, — or at 
any rate, they fear so. We cannot know how that may 
be, for she is now on a journey.” 

“ That foolish young man,” said Corentin, “ was in- 
capable of any such scheme. It is a precaution taken 
by the abbe, Carlos Herrera.” 

Corentin rested his elbow on the arm of the chair 
in which he was sitting and put his head in his hand 
to reflect. 


326 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Mone}"?” he said; why, the man has more than 
we have. Esther Gobseck served him as a bait to fish 
two millions out of that pond of gold called Nucingen. 
Messieurs, give me full powers and I will rid you of 
that fellow.’’ 

“But — the letters?” said both dukes together. 

“Listen, messieurs,” continued Corentin, rising and 
showing his crafty face in a state of ebullition. He 
shoved his hands into the pockets of his black flannel 
trousers. This great actor in the historical drama of 
our day had merely slipped on a coat and waistcoat, 
not waiting to change his morning trousers, knowing 
well that great personages are grateful for promptitude 
under certain circumstances. He now walked famil- 
iarly up and down the duke’s stud^^ discussing the 
matter aloud as if he were alone : — 

“ He is a convict; we can fling him, without trial, 
into solitary confinement at Bicetre ; without any pos- 
sible communications ; it would soon kill him. But" he 
may have given instructions to some of his followers, 
foreseeing that veiy thing.” 

“ He was put in solitary confinement at once, as 
soon as he was found in the house of that courtesan,” 
said the Due de Grandlieu. 

“There’s no such thing as solitary confinement in 
Paris for a determined fellow like him,” replied Coren- 
tin. “He’s as powerful as, — as I am!” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 327 

“What’s to be done?” asked the dukes of each 
other in a glance. 

“We can send him back to the galle3’s at once,” 
went on Corentin. “At Rochefort, he’ll be dead in 
six months — Oh ! without a crime,” he added, reply- 
ing to a gesture of the Due de Chaulieu. “ It could n’t 
be prevented. A convict can’t hold out longer than 
six months of a hot summer if he is made to really 
work in the malarial swamps of the Charente. But 
that would n’t do in case he has alread}" taken precau- 
tions about these letters. If the rascal distrusts his 
adversaries, and there ’s little doubt he does, we must 
find out what and where those precautions are. If the 
person who holds the letters is poor, of course he is 
corruptible — The thing is to make Jacques Collin 
talk ! What a duel ! I should be worsted ! It would 
be better to bu}’ those papers b}’ other papers, — an 
official pardon, — and give me that man in my squad. 
Jacques Collin is the only man I know capable of suc- 
ceeding me, now that poor Contenson and that dear 
Peyrade are dead, — Messieurs, j'ou will have to give 
me carte-blanche. Jacques Collin is at the Conci- 
ero-erie. I ’ll go and see Monsieur de Granville at his 
office. Send some confidential person to meet me 
there.' Monsieur de Granville does not know me, and 
I must therefore have either a letter of introduction 
or some imposing person to introduce me. You have 


328 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

half an hour in which to arrange this, for it will take 
me that time to dress, or rather to become what I 
must be to the e 3 ’es of the attorney-general.” 

“Monsieur,” said the Due de Chaulieu, “I know 
5 ’our wonderful ability ; and I only ask you for an an- 
swer, yes or no. Do you answer for success?” 

“Yes, — if allowed full powers, and if you give me 
your word never to question me on this subject. My 
plan is made.” 

This mj’sterious answer made the two great sei- 
gneurs shudder slightly. 

“ Go on, monsieur,” said the Due de Chaulieu, and 
charge your expenses to the usual account.” 

Corentin bowed and left the room. 

Henri de Lenoncourt, for whom Ferdinand de Grand- 
lieu ordered a carriage to be brought round, went at 
once to the king, whom he was able to see at all times, 
owing to the privileges of his office. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


329 


VIIL 

THE SUFFERINGS OF AN ATTORNEY-GENERAL. 

Thus we see that all these interests, tangled together, 
in the lowest and the highest walks of life, were about 
to meet in the office of the attorne^’-general, — brought 
there by necessity, and represented by three men : law 
and justice by Monsieur de Granville, the family by 
Corentin ; both confronted by their terrible adversary 
Jacques Collin, the representative of Evil in all its sav- 
age energy. 

What a duel this between justice and authoritj^ the 
galleys and craft ! — the galleys, that symbol of audac- 
ity which represses calculation and reflection, to which 
ail means are good, which is devoid of the hypocrisy 
of power, which symbolizes hideously the interests of 
the famished stomach, the bloody, lieadlong protestation 
of hunger! Here is the offensive and the defensive, 
robbery and property, the terrible question, of the social 
state and the natural state decided, but not argued, 
in the narrowest possible space, — in short, a fearful, 
living image of those antisocial compromises which 


330 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

feeble representatives of power have made with sav- 
age outlaws. 

When Monsieur Camusot was announced to the 
attorne3’-general, the latter made a sign that he should 
be admitted. Monsieur de Granville, who expected 
the visit, was anxious to come to an understanding 
with the judge as to the manner in which the affair of 
Lucien should be terminated. The arrangement made 
between himself and Camusot on the previous evening, 
before the death of the unhapp}" poet, of course was at 
an end. 

“Sit down, Monsieur Camusot,” said the attorne}’- 
general, dropping into his own arm-chair. 

Alone with the judge, he allowed his depression to 
be visible. Camusot looked at him, and saw on that 
firm face a pallor that was almost livid, and an utter 
fatigue, — a total prostration, which revealed more 
cruel sufferings than, perhaps, those of the man con- 
demned to death who had just listened to the rejection 
of his appeal for merc^^ ; and ,yet that rejection meant. 

Prepare to die, for 3’our last hour has come.” 

“ Shall I return later. Monsieur le comte, — though 
the matter is certainl3’ urgent?” 

“ No, remain,” replied the attorne3’-general, with 
dignit3% “A loyal magistrate, monsieur, must accept 
his trials, and know how to bear them. I did wrong to 
let you see that I am troubled — ” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 331 
Camusot made a gesture. 

God grant that 3*ou ma}’ never know, Monsieur 
Camusot, these extreme necessities of our life ; one 
might die of a lesser suffering ! I have just spent the 
night with one of m3’ intimate friends ; I liave but two 
friends, — Comte Octave de Bauvan and the Comte de 
Seriz3’. From six o’clock last evening to six this 
morning we passed, all three in turn, from the salon to 
the bedside of Madame de Seriz3’, expecting each time 
to find her dead or a maniac. Desplein, Bianchon, and 
Sinard, with two nurses, did not leave her. The count 
adores his wife. Think what a night it was ! A states- 
man is never desperate like an imbecile. Seriz3’, as calm 
as he is in the Council chamber, writhed in his chair 
that he might show us a tranquil face ; but the sweat 
rolled from his brow. I have slept from six to half- 
past seven, overcome with watching ; 3’et I had to be 
here at half-past eight to order an execution ! Believe 
me, Monsieur Camusot, when a magistrate has passed 
a night in the midst of sorrows, and felt the hand of 
God heav3’ on all things human, striking down the 
noblest hearts, it is difficult for him to sit here before 
his desk and sa3’, ‘ Let that head fall at four o’clock ! 
Annihih'ite a creature of God who is full of life and 
force and health.’ And yet that is my duty ! Over- 
come with grief, I must now set up a scaffold. A con- 
demned man does not know that the magistrate who 


332 Tht Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

condemns him suffers an agony almost equal to his 
own. At this moment, bound together by a sheet of 
paper, I, Society avenging itself, he. Crime about to 
be expiated, — we are both Duty, with two sides, two 
existences held together for an instant bj* the sword 
of the law. These heavy griefs of a magistrate, who 
pities them ? who consoles them ? Our glory is to bury 
them in the depths of our hearts. The priest, whose 
life is an offering to God ; the soldier, whose thousand 
deaths are given to his country, seem to me far happier 
than the magistrate, with his doubts, his fears, his ter- 
rible responsibilit}". Do you know the man who is to 
be executed to-da}*?” continued the attorne 3 ’-general. 
“ A young man of twenty-seA^en, handsome as the one 
who killed himself j’esterda}’, fair as he, — one whose 
head we are taking off against all expectation, for the 
only positive proof against him is of possessing stolen 
property’. Since his condemnation, he refuses to con- 
fess. For seventy days he has resisted every effort, 
and declares himself innocent. For two months I have 
had two heads upon my shoulders ! Oh ! I ’d give a 
year of my own life to obtain his confession, if only to 
reassure the juiy. Think what an injury it would be 
to law and justice should it be discovered too late that 
another had committed the crime ! The jury — that 
institution which revolutionary legislators have thought 
so strong — is an element of social ruin, for it fails in 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 333 

its mission ; it does not sufficiently protect societ}^ 
The jury plays with its functions. The jurors divide 
themselves into two camps, one of which is against the 
death penalty ; from this results the total overthrow of 
equality before the law. A certain horrible crime 
(parricide) obtains in one department a verdict of non- 
culpabilite, while in another some far less heinous crime 
is punished by death.^ What would happen if here in 
Paris we were to execute an innocent man ? ” 

“ He is an escaped convict/’ remarked Camusot, 
timidl}'. 

“ He would become a paschal lamb in the hands of 
the Opposition and the press ! ” cried Monsieur de 
Granville. “ And the Opposition would have a fine 
game to plaj" in whitening him ; for he is a Corsican, 
fanatical as to the ideas of his country. His crimes are 
mostly the result of a vendetta. In that island thej' kill 
their enemies, and think themselves, and are thought 
by others, honorable men. Ah, loyal magistrates are 
most unfortunate ! The}" ought to live apart from all 
society, as pontiffs used to do. The world would then 
see them issuing from their cells at certain fixed hours, 
grave, venerable, sitting in judgment like the high- 
priesthood of the ancients, which united in itself the 

1 At the present time [1843] there are at the galleys twenty, 
three parricides to whom have been granted the benefits of “exten- 
uating circumstances.” 


^34 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

sacerdotal power and the judicial power. We should 
then be seen in our vocation only ; now all the world 
ma}' see us suffering, or diverting ourselves like other 
men. It beholds us in salons, in our homes, as citi- 
zens, full of passions, often grotesque instead of being 
terrible.” 

This passionate cr}', broken by pauses and interjec- 
tions and accompanied by gestures which gave it an 
eloquence not transferable to paper, made Camusot 
quiver. 

“I, m3’self, monsieur,*' he said, “ began m3’ appren- 
ticeship in the sufferings of our calling 3’esterda3^ I 
have almost died of the death of that 3’oung man. He 
did not understand m3’ good intentions to him ; the 
unfortunate fellow did the harm to himself.” 

“ Ah ! he ought not to have been examined ! cried 
Monsieur de Granville. ‘‘It is so easy to do a service 
by abstaining from doing anything.” 

“ But the law? ’* said Camusot. “ It was two da3’s 
since his arrest.” 

“The harm is done,” said the attorn e3’-general. “ I 
have repaired as best I could what is, in truth, irrep- 
arable. My carriage and servants are now following 
the hearse of that poor weak poet. Serizy has done 
even more ; he accepts the dut3^ of being his execu- 
tor ; and the Comte de Bauvan has gone in person to 
the funeral.’* 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 335 

“ Well, Monsieur le comte,” said Caniusot, “ then 
let us finish the matter now. We still have a very 
dangerous prisoner on our hands. He is, as you 
know, Jacques Collin. This wretch cannot fail to be 
recognized — ” 

“ Then w'e are lost ! ” exclaimed Monsieur de Gran- 
ville. 

“He is at this moment with the man condemned 
to death, who was formerly his chain companion at 
the galleys ; he protected him as he has since protected 
Lucien. Bibi-Lupin has disguised himself as a gen- 
darme in order to be present at the interview.” 

“ Wh}' does the detective police meddle in the mat- 
ter?” cried the attorney-general. “It ought to act 
under my orders only.” 

“ All the Conciergerie will know that we have caught 
Jacques Collin. Well, I have come here to tell 3 'ou that 
this bold criminal undoubtedly’ possesses certain danger- 
ous letters in Lucien’s correspondence with Madame de 
Serizy', the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, and Mademoi- 
selle Clotilde de Grandlieu.” 

“ Are 3 ’ou sure of that?” asked Monsieur de Gran- 
ville, betraying on his face a pained surprise. 

“You can judge for yourself what cause there is to 
fear. As I opened and laid upon my table the bundle 
of letters taken from Lucien’s apartments, Jacques 
Collin cast an incisive glance over the papers and then 


336 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

let a smile of satisfaction escape him ; no judge could 
fail to understand the significance of that smile. A 
scoundrel as war}' as Jacques Collin would be careful 
not to drop such a weapon as compromising letters. 
What use, think you, his lawyer (whom he ’ll certainly 
choose among the enemies of the government and the 
aristocrac}^) will make of those documents? M}' wife, 
to whom the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse has shown much 
kindness, has gone to warn her, and they will probably 
go together to the Grandlieus’ to consult them.” 

“ The trial of that man is impossible ! ’’ cried the 
attorney-general, rising and walking up and down his 
office with great strides. “ He has undoubtedly put 
those letters in some safe place.” 

“I know where,” said Camusot. With those three 
words, he effaced from the attorney-general’s mind the 
prejudice which that official felt against him. 

Explain,” said Monsieur de Granville, sitting down. 

‘‘On my way to the Palace this morning I reflected 
deeply on this painful affair. Jacques Collin has an 
aunt, a blood-relation, a woman about whom the polit- 
ical police sent a memorandum to the prefecture. He 
is the pupil and the idol of that woman, who is the 
sister of his father and is named Jacqueline Collin. 
This creature has an establishment of marchande de 
toilette^ and, b\' help of this business, she obtains a 
knowledge of many family secrets. If Jacques Collin 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 337 

has confided those papers to the care of any one, it 
is to that woman. Let us arrest her.” 

The attorney-general cast a glance at Camusot which 
seemed to sa}’ : “The man is not such a fool as I 
thought him ; but he is young at the work ; he does 
not know how to hold the reins of the law.” 

“But,” said Camusot, continuing, “ in order to suc- 
ceed we must change all the measures we took yester- 
day ; and I have come to ask your advice, — your 
orders.” 

The attorney-general took up his paper knife and be- 
gan to tap gently on the edge of his table with one 
of those motions common to thinkers when they give 
themselves up to reflection. 

“Three great families in peril!” he cried; “no 
blunder must be made. You are right ; let us follow 
Fouche’s maxim and arrest. Jacques Collin must be 
sent back to solitary confinement instantl3\” 

“ But that is admitting him to be the ex-convict; it 
will ruin Lucien’s memory.” 

“What a frightful situation!” said Monsieur de 
Granville; “danger on all sides.” 

At this instant the director of the Conciergerie ap- 
peared, but not without rapping. An office like that 
of the attorne^^-general is so well guarded that persons 
belonging to the Parquet can alone reach the door to 
rap there. 


22 


338 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ Monsieur le comte,” said Monsieur Gault, “ the 
accused person, who goes by the name of Carlos Her- 
rera, asks to speak with 3’ou.” 

“ Has he communicated with an}- one? ” 

“ With the other prisoners ; he has been in the preau 
since half-past seven o’clock. He has also seen the 
condemned man, who seems to have talked to him.” 

Monsieur de Granville, on a word from Camusot, 
which struck him like a flash of light, saw the chance 
offered by Jacques Collin’s intimac}^ with Theodore 
Calvi to obtain the letters. Glad of a reason to post- 
pone the execution, he called Monsieur Gault to his 
side with a motion of his hand. 

“ M3’ intention is,” he said, ‘‘to put off the execu- 
tion till to-morrow ; but I do not wish this to be sus- 
pected at the Conciergerie. Keep absolute silence, 
therefore. Let the executioner appear to go on with 
the preparations. Send the Spanish priest here care- 
fully guarded ; the Spanish embassy claims him. The 
gendarmes are to bring Don Carlos by 3’our private 
staircase, so that he may see no one on the wa3\ 
Warn the men who bring him as to this. Two are to 
hold him, — one by each arm; and they are not to 
loose him for an instant until they reach the door of 
this office. Are 3’ou sure. Monsieur Gault, that this 
dangerous foreigner has communicated with no one 
except the prisoners ? ” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 339 

“ Ah ! just as he left the condemned cell a lady 
arrived to see him — ” 

Here the two magistrates exchanged a look. 

“ What lady ? ’’ asked Camusot. 

“ One of his penitents, — a marquise,” replied Mon- 
sieur Gault. 

“Worse and worse!” cried Monsieur de Granville, 
looking at Camusot. 

“ She dazzled the gendarmes and jailers,” said Mon- 
sieur Gault, puzzled. 

“Nothing is unimportant in 3 ’our functions,” said 
the attornej’-general, sternlj". “ The Conciergerie is 
not walled as it is for nothing. How did that lad}^ 
enter ? ” 

“With a proper permit, monsieur,” replied the di- 
rector. “ The lad}^, who was handsomely dressed, 
came in a fine equipage, with a chasseur and footman. 
She wished to see her confessor before going to the 
funeral of that unhappy 3 ’oung man whose body you 
sent to his late home.” 

“Bring me that permit from the prefect,” said Mon- 
sieur de Granville. 

“ It was granted on the recommendation of his Ex- 
cellency the Comte de Serizy.” 

“What was the womanlike?” asked the attorney- 
general. 

“ She appeared to be a well-bred woman.” 


340 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

“ Did you see her face? ” 

‘ ‘ She wore a black veil.” 

“ What did they say to each other? 

“A devote with a prayer-book, — what should they 
say? She asked for the abbe’s blessing, and went down 
on her knees.” 

“ Did they talk long? ” 

“About a minute; but none of us understood what 
thej^ said. They appeared to speak in Spanish.” 

“ Tell us all, monsieur,” said the attorney-general. 
“ I repeat, that the slightest detail is of importance to 
us. Let this be a warning to you.” 

“ She wept, monsieur.” 

“ Real tears? ” 

“ That we could not see ; her face was hidden in her 
handkerchief. She left three hundred francs in gold 
for the prisoners.” 

“ Then it was not she ! ” cried Camusot. 

“ Bibi-Lupin cried out, when he heard of it, that she 
was certainly a thief,” said Monsieur Gault. 

“ He ought to know,” said Monsieur de Granville. 
“ Issue that warrant,” he added, looking at Camusot, 
“ and quickl}" ; put the seals on her domicile at once. 
But how did she get the recommendation from Mon- 
sieur de Serizy ? Bring me that permit from the pre- 
fecture. Go, Monsieur Gault, and send the abbe here 
at once. As long as we have him in prison the danger 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 


341 


cannot increase ; and in two hours’ conversation we 
can often make much way in a man’s soul.” 

“Especiall}' an attorney-general like you,” said Ca- 
musot, artfully. 

“We shall be two on this occasion,” returned the 
attorney-general, politely. Then he resumed his 
reflections. 

“There ought to be attached to all prisons, which 
have parlors, a proper superintendent of visitors, with 
a good salaiy, and retiring pension for the cleverest of 
them,” he said, after a long pause. “ Bibi-Lupin 
might finish his days there. We should thus have an 
e3’e and an ear in a place which wants far more watch- 
ing than it ever gets. Monsieur Gault has told us 
nothing decisive.” 

“He is so bus}',” said Camusot. “But there is a 
great gulf between us and the prisoners in solitary con- 
finement which ought not to exist. To get from the 
cells of the Conciergerie to our offices, prisoners have to 
be brought through the corridors and the court-yard, 
and up the stairway. The attention of the guard can- 
not be perpetually on the criminal ; whereas, the crim- 
inal is thinking all the time of his affair. I have been 
told that a lady had already met Jacques Collin when 
he was on his wa}' to me for examination. This woman 
got as far as the guard-room of the gendarmes at the 
top of the staircase from the Sourici^re. The ushers 


342 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

told me so ; and I rebuked tlie gendarmes for allow- 
ing itT 

“Oh! the Palais ought to be rebuilt entirely,” said 
Monsieur de Granville ; “ but it would cost from 
twenty to thirty millions. Ask the Chambers for thirty 
millions for the good of the Law ! ” 

The steps of several persons coming up the corridor 
and the rattle of arms was heard. No doubt it was 
Jacques Collin, with his guard. 

The attornej’-general put a mask of gravit}^ on his 
face, behind which the man disappeared. Carnusot 
imitated the head of the Parquet. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


343 


IX. 

CRIME AND JUSTICE TETE A TETE. 

The office-servant opened the door, and Jacques 
Collin appeared, calm and imperturbable. 

“ You have asked to speak to me,” said the attorney- 
general. “ I will listen to 3’ou.” 

“ Monsieur le comte, I am Jacques Collin, and I 
surrender.” 

Camusot quivered, the attorne3’-general remained 
calm. 

“ You will, of course, suppose that I have motives 
for thus acting,” went on Jacques Collin, holding the 
two magistrates b3" his mocking 03 0. “ I must em- 

barrass 3"ou immensely ; for, while I continued a Span- 
ish priest, 3'ou had onl3’ to send me with an escort of 
gendarmes across the frontier at Ba3'onne, and there 
the Spanish ba3'Onets would have rid 3’ou of me.” 

The two magistrates remained silent and impassible. 

“ Monsieur le comte,” continued the convict, “ the 
reasons that impel me to act thus are serious, although 
they are devilishly personal to myself. But I can tell 
them only to you ; and if 3*011 are afraid — ” 

“Afraid of whom, — of what?” said the Comte de 


344 The Last Incarnation of Vauirin. 

Granville. The attitude, countenance, carriage of the 
head, the gesture, the glance of this great magistrate, 
made him at that moment a living embodiment of the 
Magistracy which is in duty bound to offer noble ex- 
amples of civil courage. In this passing moment he 
rose to the height of the old magistrates of the ancient 
parliament in the days of the civil wars, when judges 
found themselves face to face with death, and stood 
like the marble of the statues that were afterwards 
erected to them. 

‘^Afraid of being alone with an escaped convict.’’ 

“ Leave us. Monsieur Camusot,” said the attornej^- 
general, quickly, 

“ I wished to propose that 3’ou should bind me hand 
and foot,’" continued Jacques Collin, coldlj', enfolding 
the two magistrates in a potential look. He paused, 
and then said, gravel}", “ Monsieur le comte, 1 esteemed 
you only, but now you have my admiration.” 

“ Do you think yourself so formidable?” asked the 
magistrate, in a tone of contempt. 

“ Thiiik myself formidable ! ” replied the convict. 
“Why should I? I am, and I know it.” 

He took a chair and sat down with all the ease of a 
man who feels himself on a level with his adversary in 
a conference of one power with another power. 

“At this moment Monsieur Camusot, who had 
reached the threshold of the door, and was about to 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 345 

close it, returned to Monsieur de Granville, and gave 
him two papers, folded. 

“ See ! be said to the attorney -general, pointing to 
one of the papers. 

“ Call back Monsieur Gault,” cried the Comte de 
Granville, as soon as he had read (on the permit the 
director had brought to him) the name of the maid of 
the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, who was known to 
him. 

The director entered. 

“ Describe to me the woman who presented this per- 
mit,” said the attorney-general in a low voice to the 
director. 

“ Short, stout, and stocky,” replied Monsieur Gault. 

“ The person for whom this permit was given is tall 
and slight,” said Monsieur de Granville. “How old 
was she ? ” 

“ About sixty*.” 

“Does this concern me, messieurs?” said Jacques 
Collin. “Come,” he added, frankly*, “you needn’t 
look further. That person was my* aunt, an old woman. 
I can save you a great deal of trouble. You cannot 
find my aunt unless I choose. If we paddle about in 
this way% we shall never come to any* result.” 

“Monsieur I’abbe no longer speaks broken French,” 
remarked Monsieur Gault. 

“ Because everything is broken enough, my dear 


346 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

Monsieur Gault,” replied Jacques Collin, with a bitter 
smile. 

Monsieur Gault went hurriedly up to the attorney- 
general and whispered in his ear: “Be careful of 
yourself, Monsieur le comte ; that man is in a fury.” 

Monsieur de Granville looked slowly at Jacques 
Collin, and thought him calm ; but be presently per- 
ceived the truth of what the director had said. That 
misleading calmness covered the cold and terrible irri- 
tation of the nerves of a savage. In the convict’s e3’e 
smouldered a volcanic eruption, his fists were tightly 
closed. It was indeed a tiger gathering itself up to 
spring upon its pre3\ 

“ Leave us,” said the attorne3"-general, gravel3’, 
addressing the director and the judge. 

“You did well to send away Lucien’s murderer,’’ 
said Jacques Collin, not caring whether Camusot heard 
him or not. “I could not have borne it longer; I 
should have strangled him.” 

Monsieur de Granville shuddered. Never had he 
seen so much blood in the e3’es of a man, so much 
pallor on the cheeks, so much sweat on the brow, or 
such contraction of the muscles. 

“What good would that murder have done 3’ou?” 
he said tranquill3' to the criminal before him. 

“You avenge — or think you avenge — society 
every day, monsieur, and yet you ask me the reason 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 347 

of a vengeance ! Have j’ou never felt Revenge 
turning its blades in 3’our bosom? Are 3’ou igno- 
rant that that man, that imbecile judge, killed our 
dear one, — for you loved him, my Lucien, and he 
loved 3'ou ! I know 3'ou b3’^ heart, monsieur. Every 
night that dear child told me all when he came home 
to me. I put him to bed, as a nurse her nursling; 
and I made him relate all that happened. He confided 
to me everything, even to his least sensations. Ah! 
no good mother ever loved her only son as I loved 
that dear angel. Oh ! if 3'ou had known him as I knew 
him I Good sprang up in that heart as the flower in 
the fields. He was weak, — that was his one defect ; 
weak as the strings of a lute, strong only in bending. 
But such are the lovable natures ! their weakness 
is tenderness, the faculty of unfolding to the sun of 
art, of love, of the beautiful which God has given to 
man under myriad forms ! Lucien was half a woman. 
Ah ! what did I not say to that brute beast who 
has just gone from here? Monsieur, I did, in m3' 
place as prisoner before a judge, what God himself 
might have done to save his son, had he so willed it, 
from Pontius Pilate.” 

A torrent of tears burst from the clear and yellow 
eyes that lately flamed like those of a famished wolf 
after six months prowling on the snows of the Ukraine. 
Presently he continued ; — 


348 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

The booby would not listen to me, and he de- 
stroyed my child ! Monsieur, I washed that body with 
my tears, imploring Him I do not know^ who is above 
us. That tells 3'ou all in a word, — for I believe not 
in God ; I could not be what I am, unless I were 
materialist. You do not know, no man knows what 
sorrow is ; I alone know it. The fire of grief had so 
dried up my tears that I could not weep last night. 
But now I weep, for I feel that y^ou understand me. 
I saw you there, just now, holding the scales of justice 
— Ah! monsieur, ask God, in whom I am tempted 
to believe, ask God to spare y’ou sufferings like mine. 
That cursed judge has robbed me of my soul. Mon- 
sieur ! monsieur ! they are burying at this moment my 
life, my beauty, my virtue, my conscience, my- strength I 
Did you ever see a dog from which a surgeon drains 
its blood? behold me in that dog I This is why’ I 
have come to say to you, ‘ I am Jacques Collin, and 
I give myself up.’ I had resolved to do so this morn- 
ing when they’ tore that body from me. I determined 
then to give myself up to justice without conditions. 
But I have changed my’ mind ; now I must make some ; 
you shall know why.’’ 

“ Are you speaking to Monsieur de Granville or to 
the attorney-general?” said the count. 

The two men. Crime and Justice, looked at each 
other. The convict’s words had deeply moved the 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 3l9 

magistrate, who was seized with a divine pity for that 
unhappy man ; he came to a perception of his life and 
of his feelings. Thus impressed, the magistrate (for 
a magistrate is always a magistrate) to whom Jacques 
Collin’s life since his escape was unknown, thought 
that he might make himself master of this criminal who 
was, after all, only guilt}’ of forgery. It occurred to 
him to try generosit}’ on that complex nature, composed 
like bronze of divers metals, of good and evil. Monsieur 
cle Granville who had reached the age of fift3'-two with- 
out ever being able to inspire affection, admired tender 
natures, like all men who have not been loved. Per- 
haps this despair, the lot of man}’ men to whom women 
will give only esteem or friendship, was the secret of 
the tie between the three fnends, de Bauvan, de Gran- 
ville, de Serizy ; for mutual sorrow like mutual happi- 
ness, tunes all souls to the same diapason. 

“ You have a future,” said the attorney-general, 
with a penetrating glance at the humbled criminal. 

The man answered with a gesture that expressed the 
profoundest indifference to himself. 

“ Lucien leaves a will in which he bequeaths you 
three hundred thousand francs.” 

“ Poor boy ! ah, my poor boy ! ” exclaimed Jacques 
Collin, “always too honest! I was every evil thing; 
he was good, noble, beautiful, sublime! Such glorious 
souls cannot be injured ; he never derived anything 
from me, monsieur, — except my money.” 


350 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

This utter abandonment of his own personality', which 
the magistrate was unable to arouse, proved the sin- 
cerity of the man’s words so forcibly that Monsieur 
de Granville went over to his side completely'. The 
attorney-general alone remained against him. 

“ If nothing can interest you personally' any more, 
why are you here, and what have you come to say' to 
me? ” asked Monsieur de Granville. 

“ I came to deliver myself up ; that is something, is 
it not? You burned, but you had not found me. And 
if you had, I should only have embarrassed you.” 

“ What an adversary ! ” thought the attorney'- 
general. 

“ You are about to cut off the head of an innocent 
man, monsieur; and I have found the guilty persons,” 
said Jacques Collin, gravely. “ But I am not here for 
him more than for you. I wish to save y'ou from re- 
morse, for I love all those who bore my Lucien good- 
will, just as my hatred will forever follow those, be 
they men or women, who hindered him from living. 
What ’s a convict to me ! ” he exclaimed, after a slight 
pause. “ A convict to my eyes is what an ant is 
to yours. I’m like the brigands of Italy, — fine fel- 
lows, they ! — if only a traveller brings them in some- 
thing more than the cost of the powder and shot, they 
shoot him. In this matter I have only thought of you. 
I have made that young man, Theodore Calvi, confess ; 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 351 

I was the onl}’ person he could trust, for he used to 
be my chain companion. He has a kind nature, and 
he meant to do a service to his mistress in selling 
the stolen goods. But he was no more criminal in the 
Nanterre affair than 3 ’ou are. He is a Corsican ; it is 
their moralit}" to avenge themselves, and to kill one 
another like flies. In Spain and Italy life is not re- 
spected ; and the reason is simple enough. There they 
believe in a soul, a spirit, a something which survives 
eternall 3 ^ Go and tell that pretty tale to the histo- 
rians ! Tliere are other lands, philosophical and athe- 
istical, which make men pa}’ dear for meddling with 
human life ; and they are right, because they only be- 
lieve in Matter in this present world. If Calvi,” con- 
tinued Jacques Collin, “ had told you the name of the 
woman from whom he got the stolen things, you would 
have found, not the real culprit, for he is already in 
your hands, but an accomplice Theodore does not want 
to injure, for she is a woman. Now, I know the mur- 
derer and the managers of this bold and skilful crime, 
which has been related to me in all its details. Put off 
Calvi’s execution, and you shall know all ; but give me 
your word to commute the death penalty, and send him 
back to the galleys. In the sorrow in which I now am, 
I cannot play a part, as you must know.” 

“With you, Jacques Collin, I think I am at liberty 
to relax the rigor of my office, althougli it may some- 


352 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


what lower justice and the law, which ought never to 
make compromises.” 

“ Will 3’ou grant me that life? ” 

“Possibly.” 

“ Monsieur, I implore you to give me your word ; 
that will suffice me.” 

Monsieur de Granville made a gesture of offended 
dignity. 

“ I hold the honor of three great families in my 
hands,” said Jacques Collin ; “all j’ou hold are the 
lives of three convicts. I am the stronger.” 

“ You may be returned to solitaiy confinement ; what 
will you do then? ” asked the attorne3'-general. 

“ ga! are we playing a game?” cried Jacques 

Collin. “ I was speaking frankly to Monsieur de 
Granville ; but if the attorne^r-general is here, I take 
back mj' cards and am dumb, — just as I was about, 
had you given me your word, to offer 3’ou the let- 
ters written to Lucien by Mademoiselle Clotilde de 
Grandlieu.” 

The words were said with a cool composure of look 
and tone which warned Monsieur de Granville that 
here was an adversary with whom the slightest blunder 
was dangerous. 

“Is that all you have to ask?” said the attorne}"- 
general. 

“ I am about to speak to you of myself,” said Jacques 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 353 

Collin. “ The honor of the family of Grandlieu pays 
for the commutation of Theodore’s sentence. It is giv- 
ing much and receiving little ; for what ’s a galley-slave 
condemned for life ! If he attempts to escape you shoot 
him ; it is onl}^ a bill of exchange upon the guillotine. 
Promise me to send him to Toulon, and give orders 
that he shall be well treated, or they might pack him 
off to Rochefort, intending to get rid of him in six 
months. Now, for myself I want more. I have cer- 
tain letters of Madame de Serizy, and others of the 
Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, — and what letters ! These 
little duchesses and countesses, whose heads are so 
virile, can write masterpieces of another kind when 
they choose. These are as fine from end to end as the 
famous ode of Piron — ” 

“Really?” 

“ Should you like to see them? ” said Jacques Collin, 
smiling. 

The magistrate felt ashamed. 

“ I can let you read them, but no nonsense about it ! 
We are playing a fair game, are not we? You are to 
give me back the letters, and you must forbid that the 
person who brings them shall be watched, or followed, 
or even looked at.” 

“ But it will take time to get them,’’ said the attor- 
ney-general. 

“ No, it is half-past nine,” said Jacques Collin, 
23 


354 The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 

glancing at the clock. “Well, in four minutes 3 ’ou 
shall have a letter from each of those ladies, and after 
having read them you must countermand the guillotine. 
If I could n’t do all this, I should n’t be as calm as you 
now see me. Moreover, those ladies have been warned 
already.’’ 

Monsieur de Granville made a gesture of surprise. 

“They are already in motion; the Keeper of the 
Seals has been set to work, and they may go, who 
knows? to the king. Come, give me your word to 
take no notice of who comes here, and not to allow 
that person to be followed.” 

“ I give you my word.” 

“ Good ; I know you, — you are above deceiving an 
escaped convict. You are of the wood Turennes are 
made of, and you would keep your word to a thief; 
Well! there is at this moment in the Salle des Pas- 
Perdus an old beggar-woman, standing about the mid- 
dle of the hall. Very likely she is talking with some of 
those public writers. Send your office servant to fetch 
her; he must say to her, Dabor ti mandana. She 
will come. But don’t be unnecessarily cruel. Either 
accept my propositions, or say 3 ’ou will not make bar- 
gains with a felon (as for that, I am only a forger, 
remember), but do not leave Calvi in the agony of 
thinking this his last hour.” 

“ The execution is already countermanded. I do not 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 355 

wish, as you will now see, that justice should be behind 
you in trustfulness.” 

Jacques Collin looked at the attorney-general with 
wonder as he went to the bell and rang it. 

“ You have no intention of escaping? Give me your 
word that 3 ’ou have not, and I am satisfied. You shall 
go 3 ’ourself and find that woman.’’ 

The office servant entered. 

“Felix, send awa^^ the gendarmes,” said Monsieur 
de Granville. 

Jacques Collin was vanquished. In this duel with 
the magistrate, he meant to have been the grander, 
the stronger, the more generous of the two, and the 
magistrate had risen above him. Nevertheless, the ex- 
convict still felt himself superior in one respect ; he was 
cheating the law, persuading it that the guilt}^ was 
innocent, and victorious!}" forcing it to give up a head. 
On the other hand, this triumph must needs be dumb, 
secret, unseen, whereas the Cicogne rose superior to 
him in open day, majesticall}’. 

At the moment when Jacques Collin left Monsieur 
de Granville's office, the secretary-general of the Coun- 
cil, a deputy", the Comte des Lupeaulx, presented him- 
self, accompanied by" a feeble old man. The latter, 
wrapped in a wadded brown coat as if it were still 
winter, with white hair and a wan, cold face, walked 
like a gouty" man leaning on a gold-headed cane. His 


356 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

head was bare, he carried his hat in his hand and wore 
in his buttonhole a bar with seven crosses. 

“What brings you, my dear des Lupeaulx?” asked 
the attorne 3 ’-general. 

“ The prince sends me,” answered the secretary in 
a whisper. “ You have carte blanche to recover the 
letters of Mesdames de Serizy and de Maufrigneuse, 
and those of Mademoiselle de Grandlieu. You can 
arrange matters with the gentleman I have brought 
with me.” 

“ Who is he?” asked the attorne^^-general. 

“1 have no secrets from you, m 3 " dear count; he 
is the famous Corentin. His Majesty sends you word 
by me to report to him all the circumstances of the case 
and the conditions on which success may be obtained.” 

Do me the favor,” replied the attorney-general, 
still whispering, “ to say to the prince that the affair 
is already settled, and that I do not need the services 
of that gentleman. I will go myself and take the or- 
ders of his Majest 3 " as to the conclusion of the affair, 
which Concerns the Keeper of the Seals, for two par- 
dons will have to be granted.” 

“You have acted wisely in following up the matter 
so promptly,” said des Lupeaulx, shaking hands with 
the attorney-general. “The king is anxious lest the 
peerage and these great families should be attacked 
and vilified on the eve of his great effort, — which you 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 


357 


know of. The matter is not a mere criminal trial, it is 
really an affair of State.” 

But tell the prince that all was settled before you 
came to me.” 

“Really?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ Then you ’ll be the Keeper of the Seals, my dear 
fellow, when the present incumbent is made chancellor.” 

“ I have no ambition,” replied the attorney -general. 

Des Lupeaulx went away*, laughing. 

“ Beg the prince to ask an audience for me with the 
king about half-past two o’clock,” said Monsieur de 
Granville, as he accompanied des Lupeaulx to the 
door. 

And you are not ambitious ! ” said des Lupeaulx, 
with a sly look at de Granville. “ Well, well, you 
have two children, and you want to be made peer of 
France.” 

“ If Monsieur le comte has those letters, my inter- 
vention is useless,” remarked Corentin, when alone with 
Monsieur ^e Granville, who looked at him with a 
curiosity that is easily understood. 

“ A man like you can never be useless in so deli- 
cate an affair,” replied the attorney-general, seeing that 
Corentin had either overheard or guessed all. 

Corentin bowed with a little nod of the head that was 
almost patronizing. 


358 The Last Incarnation of Vaidrin, 

“Do you know the person concerned?” asked the 
attorney-general. 

“ Yes, monsieur le comte ; it is Jacques Collin, the 
head of the Society of the Ten Thousand, the banker 
of the galleys, an escaped convict, who for the last five 
years has managed to hide himself under the cassock 
of the Abbe Carlos Herrera. How he became actually 
charged with a mission from the King of Spain to the 
late King, I cannot tell you ; we are baffled, so far, in 
all inquiries on this point. I am now expecting an 
answer from Madrid, where I have sent notes of the 
alfair b}’ a trusty man. The fellow holds the secrets of 
two kings.” 

“ He is a man of vigorous nature. We have but two 
wa3’S of dealing with him, — either to attach him to our 
service, or get rid of him,” said the attorney-general 

“ You and I have the same idea, which is a great 
honor for me/’ replied Corentin. “ I am obliged to 
have so many ideas, for so many persons, that among 
the number I ought sometimes to meet with a man of 
sense.” 

This was said in so dry and icy a tone that the 
attorney-general kept silence, and busied himself in 
attending to certain other pressing matters. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


359 


X. 

IN WHICH JACQUES COLLIN PREPARES FOR HIS DEBUT 
AS A COMEDIAN. 

No one can imagine the amazement of Mademoiselle 
Jacqueline Collin when Jacques Collin appeared in the 
Salle des Pas-Perdus. She stood planted on her two 
legs, w'ith licr hands on her hips, for she was dressed 
as a hawker of vegetables. Accustomed as she was 
to wonderful exhibitions of her nephew’s power, this 
exceeded all. 

“ Well, if 3’0ii stand there gazing at me as if I were a 
museum of natural histoiy,” said Jacques Collin, taking 
his aunt’s arm and leading her out of the Salle, we 
shall be taken for two curiosities ; thev’ might arrest us, 
and that would be losing time.” 

So saying, he went down the staircase from the 
Galerie Marchande which leads to the rue de la 
Barillerie. 

“ Where Is Paccard? ” he asked. 

“ He is waiting for me near La Rousse’s, — walking 
up and down the quai aux Fleurs.” 

“ And Prudence? ” 


360 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ She is living there as my god-daughter.’’ 

“ We ’ll go there.” 

“ See if we are followed.” 

La Rousse, a dealer in hardware, with a shop on the 
qiiai aux Fleurs, was at one time the widow of a noted 
criminal, — a member of the Ten Thousand. In 1819 
Jacques Collin had faithfully paid over twenty odd 
thousand francs to the girl after the execution of her 
lover. Trompe-la-Morte alone knew of the intimac}’ of 
this young woman, then a milliner, with h\s fanandel. 

“ I am the dab of your man,” he said to her (this 
was during the period when he was living with Madame 
Vauquer). “ He must have spoken to you of me, my 
dear. Whoever betrays me dies within a year ; who- 
ever is faithful need never fear me. I am friend who 
will die sooner than say a word that injures those to 
whom I wish well. Be faithful to me as the soul is to 
the devil, and you shall profit b}' it. I promised 3'our 
poor Auguste that you should be made happ}’. He 
wanted to see 3"ou well off, and he let them faucher 
him for 3’our sake. Don’t ciy. Listen to me : no one 
knows but me that you were the mistress of a convict, 
a murderer buried Saturday ; and never will I tell it. 
You are twent3’-two years old, and prett3’ ; and here 
3'ou are, rich, with twenty thousand francs. Forget 
Auguste, marr3", and make yourself an honest woman 
if 3’ou can. In return for this tranquillity, I want you 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 361 

to serve me — me and any one I send to you — with- 
out hesitating. I will never ask anything that ma}’ 
compromise either you or your children or your hus- 
band, if you have one. In my business I often want a 
safe place in which to talk with persons, or to hide ; I 
need a discreet woman to carry .a letter, or do an 
errand. You shall be m3' letter-box, m3' lodge, one of 
m3’ emissaries, — nothing more, and nothing less. You 
are too blond ; Auguste and I always called you La 
Rousse, and you shall keep the name. M3' aunt, the 
marchande in the Temple, to whom I ’ll introduce you, 
will be the onl3’ person in the world whom 3’ou are 
bound to obey. Tell her everything that happens to 
3'ou ; she will marr3' you, and you will find her very 
useful.” 

In this manner was concluded one of those diabolical 
compacts, like the one which bound Prudence Servien, 
— compacts which this man never failed to keep up, 
and to strengthen and cement, for, like Satan himself, 
he had the lust of recruiting. 

Jacqueline Collin had married La Rousse in 1821 to 
the head-clerk of a wholesale iron-monger. This man, 
having bought out his patron’s business, was now on 
the high-road to prosperit3', the father of two children, 
and the assistant-mayor of his district. Never did La 
Rousse, now Madame Prelard, have the slightest 
ground of complaint against either Jacques Collin or 


362 The Last Incarnation of Yautrin. 

his annt, who kept faithfully to the terms of the agree= 
ment ; but, at every service asked of her, Madame 
Prelard trembled in all her limbs. She now became 
white and livid as she saw these two terrible person- 
ages enter her shop. 

“ \Ve have come to talk to you on business, madame,” 
said Jacques Collin. 

“ My husband is there,” she answered. 

“Well, then, I won’t take up your time; I never 
disturb people unnecessarily.” 

“ Send for a hackney-coach, my dear,” said Jacque- 
line Collin, “and tell my goddaughter to come down ; I 
think I have found her a place as maid to a great lady, 
and the steward of the household wants to take her 
there.” 

Paccard, who looked like a gendarme turned into a 
a bourgeois^ was talking at this moment with Monsieur 
Prelard about an important purchase of iron wire for a 
bridge. 

A clerk fetched a coach, and a few moments later 
Europe, or rather Prudence Servien, Paccard, Jacques 
Collin, and his aunt were, to the great joy of Madame 
Prelard, seated in the vehicle, while Trompe-la-Mort 
gave the order to drive to the Barriere d’Ivr3\ 

Prudence and Paccard, trembling before the ddb^ 
resembled what we have heard of guilty souls in the 
last judgment. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 363 

“ Where are the seven hundred and fift}" thousand 
francs?” demanded the ddb^ plunging upon them one 
of his fixed, clear looks, which so turned the blood of 
these lost souls, conscious of guilt, that the}’ fancied 
they had more pins than hairs on their heads. 

“The seven hundred and thirty thousand francs,” 
replied Jacqueline, speaking for the other two, “ are in 
safety. I placed them this morning in La Romette’s 
care, in a sealed package.” 

“If you had not given them to Jacqueline,” said 
Trompe-la-Mort, “you were going straight there f point- 
ing to the place de Greve, which the vehicle was then 
passing. 

Prudence made a sign of the cross, as they do in 
her country when the lightning falls. 

“ I forgive you,” continued the da6, “on condition 
that you never commit such a fault again, and that 
henceforth you are to me what those two fingers of 
my right hand are,” and he held up the first and mid- 
dle fingers ; “as for the thumb, that ’s my good largue 
here ! ” (striking his aunt’s shoulder). “ Now listen to 
me. Henceforth, Paccard, you ’ve nothing to fear ; you 
may follow your nose about Paris at your case. I per- 
mit you to marry Prudence.” 

Paccard caught up Jacques Collin’s hand and kissed 
it. 

“What shall I have to do?” he asked. 


364 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“Nothing; you’ll have an income and wives, not 
counting your own ; for you are terribh' Regence, old 
man ! That ’s what it is to be such a handsome 
fellow.” 

Paccard blushed on receiving this satirical eulogy 
from his sultan. 

“As for you, Prudence,” continued Jacques Collin, 
“ 3 'ou need a career, a position, a future ; I shall keep 
3 ’ou in m 3 " service. Listen to me carefulh^ In the 
rue Sainte-Barbe there ’s a veiy good establishment be- 
longing to that Madame de Saint-Esteve whose name 
my aunt sometimes borrows. It is a good business, 
with a fine custom which brings in from fifteen to 
twenty thousand francs a year. La Saint-Esteve puts 
in as manager — ” 

“La Gonore,” said Jacqueline. 

“ The largue of that poor La Pouraille,” said Paccard ; 
“ that’s where Europe and I hid the day poor Madame 
van Gobseck, our mistress — ” 

“ Who gabbles when I am speaking? ” said Jacques 
Collin. 

Profound silence reigned in the coach. Neither Pru- 
dence nor Paccard dared even look at each other. 

“The house is kept by La Gonore,” resumed Jacques 
Collin. “ If you hid there with Prudence, Paccard, I 
see you have sense enough to esquinter la raille (cheat 
the police) ; but you could vCtfaire voir des couleurs ct la 


Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 365 

darhonne (deceive her),” he continued, stroking his 
aunt’s chin. “ I see now how it was she found you ! 
Very good. I resume ; Jacqueline will negotiate with 
Madame de Saint-Esteve for the purchase of that estab- 
lishment in the rue Sainte-Barbe, and you can make 
a fortune there, m3’ girl,” he said to Prudence, “ if you 
behave properl3\ Abbess, at your age ! It is the for- 
tune of a king’s daughter ! ” he added in a sarcastic 
tone. 

Prudence threw herself upon his breast and kissed 
him ; but, with a sharp tap which showed his extraor- 
dinary strength, the d 6 h repulsed her so violentl3’ that 
if Paccard had not caught the girl she would have 
struck her head against the window of the coach and 
broken it. 

“ Paws down ! I don’t like such manners,” said the 
dab^ harshly; “they are disrespectful to me.” 

“ He is right, m3’ girl,” said Paccard. “Don’t you 
see, it is just as if the dab had given 3’ou a hundred 
thousand francs. The shop is worth that. It is on 
the boulevard, opposite to the G3’mnase ; it takes the 
theatre-goers when they come out.” 

“ I shall do better than that,” said Trompe-la-Mort. 
“I intend to buy the house — ” 

“My! we shall be rich by millions in six years,” 
cried Paccard. 

Weary of being interrupted, Trompe-la-lNIort sent 


366 The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 

a kick into Paccard’s tibia that might have broken tliat 
of another man ; but Paccard’s muscles were india rub- 
ber and his bones tin. 

“Enough, I’ll be silent,” he responded. 

“Do 3’ou think I’m talking nonsense,” resumed 
Trompe-la-Mort, who now noticed that Paccard had 
taken a glass or so too much. “ Now attend. In the 
cellar of that house are two hundred and fift}^ thou- 
sand francs in gold.” Deep silence reigned in the coach. 
“ This gold is buried under a solid mass of stone and 
cement. It is necessaiy to get at that mone}’, and you 
have only three nights to do it in. Jacqueline will 
help you. One hundred thousand will pay for the 
business and fift}^ thousand for the house ; you are to 
leave the rest.” 

“ Where? ” asked Paccard. 

“ In the cellar ! ” exclaimed Prudence. 

“ Hush ! ” said Jacqueline. 

“Yes, but in order to get the business transferred 
la raille (police) must give a permit,” said Paccard. 

“They will,” said Trompe-la-Mort, curtly. “Mind 
3’our own business.” 

Jacqueline looked at her nephew, and was struck 
with the change in that face, visible through even the 
impassible mask beneath which the strong man habitu- 
ally concealed his emotions. 

“ My dear,” said Jacques Collin to Prudence Servien, 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 367 

“ my aunt will give 3-011 the seven hundred and fift3' 
thousand francs — ” 

“ Seven liundred and thirty f said Paccard. 

“Well, so be it, — seven hundred and thirt}- ! ” re- 
sumed Jacques Collin. “To-night 3'ou must get back 
in some wa}' or other into Madame Lucien’s house. 
Go up through the sk3’light to the roof, down the 
chimnej’ to your late mistress’s bedroom, and put the 
packet containing the mone}^ in the mattress of her 
bed — ” 

“Why not go in by the door of the apartment?” 
asked Prudence. 

“ Idiot! the seals are on it,” replied Jacques Collin. 
“ The inventory will be taken in a few da3’S, and it will 
then appear that you are innocent of the robbery.” 

“ Vice le duh P’ cried Paccard. “ What kindness ! ” 

“Driver, stop!” called out Jacques Collin in his 
powerful voice. 

The coach drew up near the stand of hackne3--coaches 
by the Jardin des Plantes. 

“ Off with you, my children,” said Jacques Collin to 
Prudence and Paccard, “ and don’t commit any follies. 
Be to-night on the Pont des Arts about five o’clock. 
My aunt will be there and tell 3-011 if there is an3- coun- 
ter order. One must foresee everything,” he whispered 
to his aunt. “ Jacqueline will explain to you to-mor- 
row,” he added, ^‘how you can go to work to get the 


368 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

gold out of the profonde without danger. It is a deli- 
cate operation.” 

Prudence and Paccard s>prang out upon tlie pavement 
as happy as pardoned thieves. 

“ Ah, what a man he is, our dab!"' cried Paccard. 

“ He ’d be the king of men if he did n’t despise 
women so.” 

“ Ha ! is n’t he amiable ? ” exclaimed Paccard. Did 
you see the kick he gave me? We deserved to be sent 
adpatres; for it was our filching that monej' that got 
him into all these troubles.” 

“ Let’s hope,” said the keener and wiser Prudence, 
“ that he is n’t getting us into some crime in hopes of 
sending us to the prel 

“ He ! if he meant that he ’d sa}" so. You don’t 
know him. What a fine career he has made for you ! 
Why, here we are, regular bourgeois ! What luck ! 
Oh, when he likes 3’ou, that man, he has n’t his equal- 
for goodness ! ” 

“ Minette,” said Jacques Collin to his aunt, “ take 
charge 3’ourself of La Gonore ; 3*011 must keep her 
quiet. In five days from now she will be arrested, and 
they will find in her room a hundred and fifty thousand 
francs in gold which remain from another share in the 
murder of the Crottats — ” 

“ But that will give her five years in the Madelon- 
nettes,” said Jacqueline. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 369 

“ About that,” replied Jacques Collin. “ And it is 
a good reason why the Saint-Esteve should sell her 
house. She can’t manage it herself, and she won’t find 
the right kind of deputy when she wants her. Conse- 
quently, you can easily arrange the matter. We want 
an eye there. But all these operations are secondary to 
the negotiation I am now engaged in about the letters. 
Unrip your gown, and give me those specimens of our 
merchandise. Where are the three packets ? ” 

“ Parbleu! La Kousse has them.” 

“ Driver,’’ cried Jacques Collin, “ turn round, and go 
to the Palais de Justice, and make haste ! — I promised 
celerity, and I’ve been gone over half an hour; it is 
too much. Stay with La Rousse yourself, and give the 
three packets, sealed up, to an office-servant who will 
come there and ask for Madame de Saint-Esteve. The 
de is the password; he’ll say to you, ^Madame, I 
have come from the attorney-general for the things 3 ’ou 
know of.’ Stand outside the house, and be looking at 
what goes on in the flower-market, so as not to excite 
Prelard’s attention. As soon as you have given up the 
letters, go to work with Prudence and Paccard.” 

“ I see what 3 ^ou are after,” said Jacqueline; “ 3 ’ou 
want to take Bibi-Lupin’s place. Lucien’s death has 
turned your brain.” 

“ And Theodore, whose hair they meant to cut at 
four o’clock this afternoon.” 


24 


370 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

“ Well, after all, it is an idea ! We should end our 
da3"s as honest folk and bourgeois on some nice prop- 
ert}', — in the fine climate of Touraine, sa}".” 

“What else could I be? Lucien has taken away 
my soul, my happy life ; I see thirty 3’ears still be- 
fore me, and I have no heart to live them. Instead 
of being the ddb of the galleys, I shall be the Figaro of 
the law, and I ’ll avenge Lucien. I can onl3’ demolish 
Corentin in the skin of the police. It might be life 
still to have a man to pursue. All that we do and are 
in life is but appearance. Reality is Idea ! ” he added, 
striking his forehead. “ How much have you got in 
the treasur3^?” 

“Nothing,” replied his aunt, alarmed b3" the tone 
and manner of her nephew. “ I gave 3’ou all for your 
3'oung one. La Romette has n’t more than twenty 
thousand for her business. I have taken all Madame 
Nourisson had, which was sixty thousand francs of her 
own. Ha ! our sheets have n’t been washed for a 3’ear. 
The young one cost you all our money and the fade of 
the Fanandels^ and all that Nourisson possessed into 
the bargain.” 

“ That makes — ” 

“ Five hundred and fift3^ thousand.” 

“ Well, of that we have a hundred and fifty thousand 
in gold which Paccard and Prudence will owe us. I can 
tell you where to get another two hundred thousand ; 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 371 

the rest will come from Esther’s estate. We must 
reimburse the Nourrisson. With Theodore, Paccard, 
Prudence, the Nourrisson, and 3’ou, I ’ll soon have the 
battalion that I need. Now listen — ” 

“ Here are the three letters,’^ said Jacqueline, who 
b^’ this time had given a last snip to the lining of her 
gown. 

“ Ver}’ good ! ” replied Jacques Collin, receiving the 
precious autographs on vellum paper which still held its 
perfume. “ Theodore did the trick at Nanterre.” 

“Did he? How?” 

“Never mind how; time is precious. He wanted 
to give a worm to a little bird, — a Corsican named 
Ginetta. You must get la Nourrisson to find her. I ’ll 
send 3"Ou the necessary" information in a letter Gault 
will hand to 3'ou. Come to the guichet of the Conci- 
ergerie in two hours from now. You must foist that girl 
upon Godet’s sister, — a clear-starcher ; she must lodge 
there. Godet and Ruffard were La Pouraille’s accom- 
plices in the robbery and murder of the Crottats. The 
four hundred and fifty thousand francs are still intact : 
one third in La Gonore’s cellar ; the second third in 
La Gonore’s chamber (that belongs to Ruffard) ; the 
third is Godet’s, and it is hidden somewhere in his sis- 
ter’s house. We will begin by taking one hundred and 
fifty thousand from La Pouraille’s cache, one hundred 
from Godet’s, one hundred from Ruffard’s. Once Ruf- 


372 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

fard and Godet are locked up, it is they who have 
made away with part of the money. Prudence and 
Paccard will do the trick at La Gonore’s, and 3 'ou and 
Ginetta (who seems to me a sly cat) must manoeuvre 
Godet’s sister. For m 3 ’ debut in corned}’, I intend to 
make the Cicogne recover the four hundred thousand 
francs stolen from the Crottats and find the guilty par- 
ties. I shall seem to clear up the affair at Nanterre. 
We shall recover our funds, and be at the very heart 
of the police. We were the game, now we ’ll be the 
hunters, that’s all. Give the driver three francs.” 

The coach stopped before the Palais. Jacqueline, 
bewildered, paid the man. Trompe-la-Mort went up 
the staircase on his way back to the office of the 
attorne}’-general. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


373 


XL 

MESSIEURS LES ANGLAIS, FIRE FIRST ! 

A TOTAL change of life is so violent a crisis that, in 
spite of his decision to make it, Jacques Collin walked 
slowly up the steps of the staircase which leads to the 
Galerie Marchande, where, beneath the peristyle of the 
court of assizes, is the gloom}' entrance to the law 
offices. A political matter had occasioned a sort of 
gathering at the foot of the double staircase which 
leads to the court of assizes, so that the ex-convict, 
absorbed in his own thoughts, was stopped for a few 
moments by the throng. To left of this double stair- 
case stands out, like an immense pilaster, one of the 
buttresses of the Palais, and close beside it is a small 
door. This small door gives entrance to a corkscrew 
staircase, which serves as a way of communication with 
the Conciergerie. By it the attorney-general, the di- 
rector of the prison, the judges of the court of assizes, 
and the chief of the detective police can come and go. 
It was by a branch of this staircase, now disused, that 
Marie- Antoinette, queen of France, was taken before 


374 The Last Imarnation of Vautrin. 

the Revolutionary tribunal which sat, as we know, in 
the great and solemn hall of the court of appeals. 

The heart shrinks at the sight of this dreadful stair- 
way when we think that the daughter of Maria Theresa, 
whose head-dress and hoop once filled the grand stair- 
case at Versailles, passed this wa}’. Was she expiating 
the crime of her mother, — the odious partitioning of 
Poland? Sovereigns who commit such crimes do not 
think of the retribution demanded by Providence. 

At the moment when Jacques Collin was about to 
enter the vaulted passage-way beneath the staircase, 
Bibi-Lupin came out b}^ the little door in the buttressed 
wall. The chief of the detective police was coming 
from the Conciergerie, and was also on his way to the 
attorney-general’s office. We can imagine the amaze- 
ment of Bibi-Lupin when he saw before him the well- 
known overcoat of Carlos Herrera, which he had 
watched and studied for some hours that morning. 
He ran to head him off. Hearing steps, Jacques Collin 
turned round. The two enemies stood face to face. 
Each stood still, and the same look darted from each 
pair of eyes, different as they were, like two pistol-shots 
in a duel fired at the same instant. 

“ Ha ! this time I have you, brigand ! ” cried the 
chief of police. 

“ Ha ! ha !” replied Jacques Collin, ironically. The 
thought crossed his mind that Monsieur de Granville 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 375 

had ordered him to be followed; and, strange fact! 
it gave him pain to think that man less great than he 
imagined him. 

Bibi-Lupin sprang courageously at Jacques Collin’s 
throat ; but the latter, with his eye on his adversary, 
received him with a sharp blow which sent the man 
six feet off with his heels in the air. Trompe-la-Morte 
went composedl}" up to Bibi-Lupin and offered him a 
hand to rise, — precise!}' like an English boxer, who, 
sure of his strength, is ready for the next round. Bibi- 
Lupin was much too strong a man to make an outer}' ; 
but^he sprang up, ran to the entrance of the corridor, 
and signed to a gendarme to stand there on guard. 
Then, with the rapidity of lightning, he returned to his 
enemy, who was watching his proceedings tranquilly. 
Jacques Collin had made up his mind : either the attor- 
torney-general had broken his word to him, or he had 
not taken Bibi-Lupin into his confidence ; in which case 
it was necessary to explain his position. 

“Do you mean to arrest me?” he asked of his 
enemy. “ Say so without more ado. Don’t I know 
that in the heart of the Palais you are stronger than 
I? I could kill you where you stand, but I couldn’t 
massacre all the gendarmes of the line. Let’s have 
no noise about it ; where do you want to take me ? ” 

“ To Monsieur Camusot.” 

“Very good; to Monsieur Camusot,’’ responded 


376 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

Jacques Collin. “ But why not to the attorney-gen- 
eral? — it is nearer,” he added. 

Bibi-Lupin, who knew himself out of favor in the 
higher regions of judicial power, being suspected of 
making his fortune out of criminals and their victims, 
was not unwilling to appear before the attorney-general 
with so fine a capture. 

‘•We will go there,’’ he said, “that suits me. But, 
since you surrender, you must let me trim you ; I ’m 
afraid of your claws.” 

So saying he drew a pair of handcuffs from his 
pocket. Jacques Collin held out his hands, and Bibi- 
Lupin fitted them on. 

“ Ah gaf' said the latter, “ since you are so good- 
humored, just tell me how you got out of the Con- 
ciergerie.” 

“ By the same way ^-ou did, — the little staircase.” 

“ Then you must have played some trick on the 
gendarmes ? ” 

“No; Monsieur de Granville set me at liberty on 
parole.” 

Planches-tu 9 (are you joking?)” 

“You’ll see if I am. Maybe the handcuffs will go 
on you next.” 

At this instant Corentin, whom we left in the attor- 
ney-general’s office, was saying to that magistrate: 

“ Well, monsieur, it is an hour since our man de- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 377 

parted ; are not you afraid he has given you the slip ? 
He may be already on the road to Spain, and we shall 
never recover him or the letters, for Spain is a very 
visionary land.” ^ 

“Either I don’t know men, or he will return,” re- 
plied Monsieur de Granville. “ All his own interests 
oblige him to return ; he has more to gain from me 
than I from him.” 

At this moment Bibi-Lupin appeared. 

“Monsieur le comte,” he said, ‘‘I have some good 
news to give you. Jacques Collin, wlio had escaped, 
is retaken.” 

“ See ! ” cried Jacques Collin, “ how you have kept 
3 ’our word. Ask your double-faced agent where he 
found me.” 

“Where?” asked the attorney-general. 

“Not two steps from the parquet f replied Bibi- 
Lupin. 

“ Relieve that man of your irons,” said Monsieur de 
Granville, sternly. “ Remember that until you get 
further orders this man is to be left at libert 3 \ Go 
out ! 3 ’ou are too much in the habit of talking and act- 
ing as if you alone were the police, and the law too.” 

So saying, the attorne^’-general turned his back on 
the chief of the detective police, who became livid, 
especially after receiving a glance from Jacques Collin 
which seemed to him to foretell bis downfall. 


378 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

“ I have not left m}- office ; I was waiting for you ; 
you cannot doubt that I have kept my word, as you have 
kept yours,’* said Monsieur de Granville to Jacques 
Collin. 

“At the first moment I doubted you, Monsieur le 
comte ; perhaps in my place you would have thought 
as I did ; but reflection showed me that I was unjust. 
I bring you more than you can give me ; you had no 
interest in betraying me.” 

The attorne 3 ’-general exchanged a rapid glance with 
Corentin. That glance could not escape Trompe-la- 
Mort, whose attention was concentrated on Monsieur 
de Granville ; he turned and saw a little old man, en- 
sconced in an arm-chair in a corner of the room. In- 
stantly’, warned by that keen and rapid instinct which 
tells of the presence of an enemy’, Jacques Collin ex- 
amined this personage ; he saw at a glance that the 
eyes were not of the same age as the rest of the per- 
son and the style of the clothes, and he was sure of 
a disguise. 

“We are not alone!” he said. 

“ No,” replied the attorney-general, briefly. 

“ Monsieur is, I think,” said the ex-convict, “ one of 
my best acquaintances.” 

He took a step toward the old man, and recognized 
Corentin, the real and avowed author of Lucien’s down- 
fall. Jacques Collin, whose face was a brick-red, be- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 379 

came, for an almost imperceptible moment, pale and 
nearly white ; all his blood rushed to his heart, so hot 
and frenzied was his desire to spring upon that danger- 
ous beast and crush him. But he drove back the brutal 
desire, and restrained it by the force which made him 
so terrible. He assumed a friendl}’ air and a tone of 
obsequious politeness, — the habit of which he had ac- 
quired while playing the r61e of an ecclesiastic of the 
higher order. He bowed to the little old man. 

“Monsieur Corentin,” he said, “is it to accident 
that I owe the pleasure of meeting you, or am I for- 
tunate enough to be the object of your visit to the 
Parquet? ” 

The amazement of the attorne 3 ’-general was great ; he 
set himself to examine the two men now brought face to 
face with each other. Jacques Collin’s movements and 
words denoted a crisis, and he was curious to under- 
stand the meaning of it. On this sudden and miracu- 
lous recognition of his personality, Corentin started up 
like a snake whose tail has been trodden on. 

“Yes, it is I, my dear Abbe Carlos Herrera.” 

“ Have you come,” asked Trompe-la-Mort, “ to place 
yourself between the attorney-general and me ? Am I 
to have the happiness of being made the subject of a 
negotiation which may show off 3 ’our brilliant talents? 
Here, monsieur,” said the convict, turning back to the 
attorne 3 ’-general, “I won’t make you lose time so pre- 


380 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

cious as 3’ours ; here are the samples of m3" merchan- 
dise.” So saying, he held out to Monsieur de Granville 
three letters which he took from the pocket of his over- 
coat. “ While you are looking over them I will, with 
your permission, converse with monsieur here.’^ 

“ That is too much honor for me, monsieur,” said 
Corentin, who could not repress a slight quiver. 

“ You obtained a complete success in our late affair, 
monsieur,” said Jacques Collin. “ I was beaten,’’ he 
added carelessly, like a gambler who loses his mone3’, 
“ but you left a few men on the field ; the victor3’ cost 
3"ou something.” 

“ Yes,” replied Corentin, accepting the jest ; “if 3011 
lost your queen, I lost both ray castles.” 

“ Oh ! Contenson was only a pawn,” said Jacques 
Collin, “ easil3’^ replaced. You are, — permit me to 
give you this praise to 3’our face, — you are, upon my 
honor, a marvellous man.” 

“ No, no, I bow before your superiorit3",” replied 
Corentin, with the look of a stage-jester, and as if he 
had said, “ You want to hlaguer, very good, hlaguons / ” 
“For I, 3"ou know, dispose of power, and 3’ou, — 3’ou 
are, so to speak, alone — ” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” exclaimed Jacques Collin, significantly. 

“ And you almost carried the day’,” continued Coren- 
tin, taking note of the exclamation. “You are the 
most extraordinary" man I have ever met, and I have 


The Last Incarnaiion of Vautrin. 381 

known many that were very extraordinar}^ ; for the 
classes with whom I fight are all remarkabje for their 
audacity and their bold conceptions. I was, unfor- 
tunately, very intimate with the late Due d’Otrante. 
I have worked with Louis XVIII. while he reigned and 
when he was an exile ; also for the Directory and for 
the Emperor. You are of the stamp of Louvel, the 
finest political instrument I have ever seen ; but 3*ou 
have also the suppleness of diplomats. And what aux- 
iliaries you have ! I ’d give a good many heads to the 
block if I had the cook of that poor little Esther in 
m}^ service. I can’t find such people myself; where 
do you get them ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” replied Jacques Collin, “ 3'ou overwhelm 
me. From 3’ou, such praises would turn the head of 
any man.” 

“ They are deserved. Wh3' ! if you had n’t had that 
little fool of a poet on 3’our hands to defend, 3’ou ’d 
have routed us all.” 

“ Ah ! monsieur, but I work underhand. To be 
great and strong in the broad daylight, and at all hours, 
it takes you and 3'ours.” 

“ Well, come,” said Corentin, “ we are each convinced 
of our mutual merit and value. Here we are now, 
both alone. I have lost m3' old friends, and you 3'our 
3'oung protege. I am the stronger for the moment. 
Why should n’t we do as the people in the ‘ Aubei’ge 


382 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

des Adrets ’ ? I hold out my hand to you and say : 
‘ Shake hands, and let’s make an end of it.’ I offer 
you, in presence of the attorney-general, a full and 
complete pardon ; you shall be one of mine, next to 
myself and, possibly, my successor.” 

“ So it is a position that you are offering me?” said 
Jacques Collin. “ A fine position ! I should pass from 
black to white.” 

“ You would be in a sphere where your talents would 
be aj)preciated and rewarded, and in which you could 
act freely at your ease. The political and govern- 
mental police has its perils. I have already, such as 
you see me, been twice imprisoned, — I’m none the 
worse for that. But one travels, one sees the world ; 
we are all that we desire to be ; the machinery of great 
political dramas ; treated politely by the great seigneurs. 
Come, my dear Jacques Collin, will that suit you?” 

“Have you orders in respect to this?” asked the 
convict. 

“I have full power,” replied Corentin, rejoicing at 
his inspiration. 

“ You are joking ; y^ou are a very strong man and 
you must admit that others may distrust you. You 
have sold more than one man by tying him in a sack 
into which you persuaded him to enter. I know your 
fine battles, — the Montauran affair, the Simeuse affair. 
Ha! ha! those were the Marengos of spydom.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 383 

“ Well,” said Corentin, “ 3'ou have confidence in the 
attorne3'-general, haven’t 3'ou?” 

“ Yes,” said Jacques Collin, bowing respectfull3\ 
“ I admire his noble character, his firmness, his 103^- 
alt3", and I would give m3’ life to see him happ3’. 
Therefore,” he added, addressing the count, “ I shall 
begin by curing the dangerous condition in which Ma- 
dame de Seriz3’ now lies.” 

The attorne3’-general made a motion of surprise and 
pleasure. 

“ Well, then, ask him,” continued Corentin, “ whether 
I have not full power to take you from the shameful 
position 3’ou now hold and attach you to m3" person.” 

“ That is true,” said Monsieur de Granville, watch- 
ing the convict closel3’. 

“ Absolutel3’ true? I am to have absolution for the 
past and the promise of succeeding you if I show my 
competency ? ” 

“ Between two men like 3"OU and me, there can be no 
misunderstanding,” replied Corentin, ‘ with a grandeur 
by which most persons would have been caught. 

^^And the price of this transaction is, no doubt, 
the return of three bundles of letters?” said Jacques 
Collin. 

“ I did not think it necessary to say that.” 

M3" dear Monsieur Corentin,” said Trompe-la-Mort, 
with an irony worthy of that which made Talma’s tri- 


384 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

umph in the r 61 e of Nicomecle. “ I thank 3’ou ; I owe 
to 3*ou the knowledge of what I am, and the importance 
attached to depriving me of those weapons. I shall 
not forget it. I shall be ever, and alwa3’s, at your 
service ; and instead of saying, like Robert Macaire, 

‘ Let us embrace ! ’ I shall embrace you.” 

He seized Corentin by the middle of the bod3’^ with 
such rapidit3" that the latter could not defend himself ; 
he pressed him like a doll to his heart, kissed him on 
both cheeks, lifted him like a feather, opened the door 
of the office and deposited him outside, somewhat 
bruised by the rough embrace. 

“ Adieu, m3’ dear fellow,” he whispered in his ear. 
“ We are separated, one from the other, by the length of 
three dead bodies; we have measured swords, and both 
are of the same steel and the same dimensions. Let 
us respect each other ; but I choose to be your equal, 
not 3’our subordinate. Armed as 3’ou would be, I think 
3’ou too dangerous a general for your lieutenant. A 
grave lies between ns. Sorrow to 3’ou if 3’ou attempt 
to come upon m3^ ground ! You call 3^ourself the State 
just as lacqueys take the names of their masters ; I 
shall call myself Justice. We shall often meet; let us 
treat each other with all the more dignity and propri- 
et3’’ because we are, and ever shall be — atrocious 
scoundrels,” he whispered. “I set 3011 an example 
in that embrace.” 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 385 

For the first time in his life, Corentin- looked foolish, 
and he allowed his terrible adversary to shake him by 
the hand. * 

If this is how it will be,” he said, “ I think it is to 
the interests of both to remain /nends.” 

“We shall be the stronger on both sides, — but also 
more dangerous,” added Jacques Collin in a low voice. 
“ You will permit me to ask you to-morrow for certain 
instalments on this bargain.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Corentin, good-humoredl}", “ I see you 
take your affair out of my hands and give it to the 
attorney-general. You will be the cause of his pro- 
motion. I cannot help telling 3’ou that 3"ou do right. 
Bibi-Lupin’s ways are well-known ; besides, he has 
served his time. If 3'ou take his place, you will live in 
the only condition that reall3" suits v’ou. I shall be 
charmed to see you in it, — on my word of honor.” 

“ Au re voir, and soon,” replied Jacques Collin. 


386 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


XIL 

JACQUES COLLIN ABDICATES THE ROYALTY OF DAB. 

On re-entering the office, Trompe-la-Mort found the 
attorne^'-general sitting at his desk with his head in 
his hands. 

“ How can 3*011 prevent Madame de Seriz}' from be- 
coming insane ? ” asked Monsieur de Granville, looking 
up. 

“ I can do it in five minutes,” replied Jacques Collin. 

“ And 3^ou are willing to place all the letters of those 
ladies in m3* hands?” 

“ Have 3’ou read the three I gave 3*ou?” 

“Yes,” replied the attorney-general. 

“Well, we are alone; forbid all entrance and let 
us come to an agreement,” said Jacques Collin. 

“ One moment. Before all else the law must take 
its course ; Monsieur Camusot has orders to arrest 
3'our aunt.” 

“ He cannot find her.” 

“ The police are to search a place in the Temple 
where a Mademoiselle Paccard keeps an establishment.” 

“They will find nothing but rags, costumes, dia- 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 387 

monds and uniforms. Still, it is high time to put an 
end to Monsieur Camusot’s zeal.” 

Monsieur de Granville rang the bell and told the 
servant to deny him to all comers. 

“ Now,” he said to Jacques Collin, “ let us finish 
what we were saying. I wish to know your prescrip- 
tion for curing the countess.” 

“ Monsieur le comte,” said Jacques Collin, becoming 
grave. “ I was, as you know, condemned to five years 
at the galleys for the crime of forgery. I love 1113^ 
liberty. That love, like all loves, defeated itself, — 
for lovers quarrel because they are too adoring. B3" 
escaping, and then being retaken, I have, in point of 
fact, done seven years at the galleys. You have there- 
fore only to pardon me the increase of penalt3' which 
I incurred at the pre, — excuse me, I mean the galleys. 
In realit3’, I have suffered m3’ punishment, and until 
the3’ find me guilt3’ of some other crime, — which I 
def3’ the law, and even Corentin, to do, — I ought to be 
restored to my riglits as a French citizen. Excluded 
from Paris and under tlie supervision of the police, is 
that a life, I ask you? Where caj I go? What can I 
do? You know’ m3^ capacities. You saw Corentin, 
that arsenal of tricks and treacheiy, livid with fear 
before me and doing justice to m3* talents. That man 
has robbed me of everything ! for it is he, he onl3’, 
by what means and in whose interests I do not know. 


388 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

who has overthrown the edifice of Lucien’s fortune. 
Corentin and Cainusot have done it all. 

“Do not recriminate,” said Monsieur de Granville; 
“keep to your point.” 

“ Well, my point is this : Last night, holding in my 
hand the icy hand of that dead child, I vowed to m}'- 
self to renounce the senseless struggle I have carried 
on for twenty years against society. You will not 
think me capable of cant after what I have told you 
of my religious opinions. Well, I have seen the world 
for twenty years on its seamy side, in its caves and 
cellars, and I recognize that there is in the march of 
events a force, which you call Providence, which I call 
fate, and my comrades call luck. All evil action is over- 
taken b}" vengeance of some kind, no matter with what 
rapidity it gets away from it. In this business of fight- 
ing the world, see what happens ! You hold good cards, 
quint and quatorze in liand with the lead ; a candle 
falls, the cards are burned, or the player falls in a fit ! 
There 3 ’ou have Liicien’s history. That lad, that angel, 
never committed so much as the shadow of a crime ; he 
let himself be led, he let things be done for him. He 
was about to many Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, to be 
made a marquis ; he had a fortune. Well, a girl poisons 
herself, she hides a sum of money, and the edifice of 
that fine fate, so laboriously* raised, crumbles in a 
moment. And who is the man who gave the first 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 389 

thrust? A man covered with hidden infamy; a mon- 
ster who has committed in the world of moneyed in- 
terests such crimes that every penny of his fortune is 
soaked with the tears of a family; a Nucingen, who 
has been a legalized Jacques Collin in the world of 
money. You know as well as I do the liquidations, 
the tricks of that man for which he deserves hanging ; 
but society accepts him. My chains will forever ham- 
per all m}’ actions, even the most virtuous. To be a 
shuttlecock between two battledores, one called the 
galleys the other the police, is a life whose triumph 
is toil without end and in which tranquillit}’ seems 
to me impossible. Jacques Collin, monsieur, is being 
buried at this moment with Lucien, whom the}^ are now 
sprinkling with holy-water before he goes to Pere- 
Lachaise. But I, where can I go, not to live, but to 
die ! In the present state of things, you, I mean Law 
and Justice, have not been willing to concern yourself 
with the civil and social condition of the liberated con- 
vict. When the law is satisfied, society is not ; it con- 
tinues its distrust, and it does all to justify that dis- 
trust to itself. It makes the liberated convict an 
impossible being. It ought to return to him all his 
rights, for he has paid, the penalty of his crime ; but 
society forbids him to live within a certain zone. It 
says to the wretched man : ‘ Paris and its suburbs 

to such a distance, the only place where you can hide 


390 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

f 

3’oiir past, you shall not inhabit’ Moreover, it sub- 
jects the liberated convict to police supervision, and 
3’ou think it possible for a man to live under such con- 
ditions? To live, one must work; for we don’t bring 
fortunes fi’om the galleys. But 3’ou have arranged 
that the convict shall be clearly pointed out, recog- 
nized, stamped, and penned, because 3’ou think citizens 
ma3’' trust him when societ3' and justice will not. You 
condemn him to hunger or to crime. He can get no 
work ; he is inevitabl3’ driven to return to his former 
business, which will send him to the scaffold. Thus, 
while desiring to renounce m3* struggle against the law, 
I saw no place under the sun above us for me. One 
only could I fill, — that of being a servant of the Au- 
thority which weighs so heavil3’ upon us. When this 
thought came to me the power in my possession of 
which I have spoken to 3*011, made itself clear to my 
mind. Three great families are in the hollow of m3^ 
hand. Do not think that I desire to blackmail them. 
Blackmailing is the most cowardly of murders. To m3" 
e3*es it is a crime of deeper wickedness than murder ; 
a murderer must have a devilish courage. I act out 
my opinions ; for the letters which are my security, 
which enable me to speak as I do to you, which put 

me, at this moment, on an equal footing with you, 

I, Crime, you. Justice, — are at 3*0111’ disposition. Let 
your servant now go and ask for them in your name ; 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 391 

he will receive them. I seek no equivalent, I do not 
sell them. Alas ! Monsieur le comte, when I put them 
aside to keep them I did not think of m^’self ; I 
thought of some peril which Lucien might possibl}' en- 
counter. If 3’ou will not comply’ with m^’ request I 
have more courage, more disgust of life than I need 
to blow m}’ brains out and rid 3’ou of me. I could, 
with a passport, go to America and live in the wilds ; 
I have all the makings of a savage in me. Such are 
the thoughts that filled m3’ mind last night. Your sec- 
retaiy must have given 3’ou, I think, a message I 
charged him to conve3’ to 3’ou. Seeing the precau- 
tions 3’OU were taking to save Lucien’s memoiy from 
infamy, I gave 3’ou all my life, poor gift ! I no longer 
cared for it; it seemed to me impossible without the 
light that lighted it, without the joy that brightened 
it, without the thought that was its meaning, without 
the splendor of that young poet who was its sun, and 
I wished then to give you these letters — ” 

Monsieur de Granville bowed his head. 

“ When I was taken to the preau, I heard that m^ 
little chain-companion was about to be executed for the 
crime at Nanterre,” continued Jacques Collin. “ I 
learned also that Bibi-Lupin is betraying his position ; 
one of his own agents was engaged in the Crottat mur- 
der. Was not this, as you would say, providential? I 
then saw the possibility of usefulness, of employing the 


392 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

faculties with which I am gifted, the melanchol}' knowl- 
edge that I have acquired, in the interests of society, 
— of being useful, in short, instead of harmful ; and 
I have dared to count upon your comprehension and 
your kindness.’* 

The air of good-will, of candor, of simplicity in the 
man who thus confessed himself without bitterness, 
without that philosoph}- of vice which had hitherto 
made him so terrible to listen to, would have caused 
all those who saw it to believe in a transformation. 
He was no longer his past self. 

“ I believe in 3’ou so thoroughly,” he resumed with 
the humility of a penitent, “that I desire to put m^^self 
wholly' at y'our disposal. You see me between three 
roads, — suicide, America, and the rue de Jerusalem. 
Bibi-Lupin is rich ; he has served his time ; he is a 
double-faced sentryr of the law ; and if you will let 
me act against him, je le paumerais marron (I wull 
take him red-handed) within a week. If you will give 
me the place of that scoundrel, y'ou will render a great 
service to society. I shall be faithful. I have all the 
qualities needed for the work. I have more than Bibi- 
Lupin, because I am educated, I have followed my 
classes in rhetoric ; and I am not such a blockhead as 
he, for I have manners, — when I choose to have them. 
I have no other ambition than to be an element of 
order and repression instead of being corruption itself. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 393 

I will never again recruit a human being for the grand 
arm}’ of vice. Monsieur, when 3’ou capture the enem3’’s 
general on the open field 3’Ou don’t shoot him, 3’ou 
give him back his sword, with a town for a prison. 
Well, I am the general of the galle3’s, and I surrender. 
It is not the Law that has struck me dowm, it is a 
death. — The sphere in which I ask to act and live 
is the onl}" one that I can live in. In it, I shall de- 
velop the power that I feel within me. Decide.” 

He ceased speaking, and stood in a submissive and 
respectful attitude. 

“You have put those letters at my disposal?” said 
the attorne3’-general. 

“You can send for them ; the}’ will be given to the 
person whom 3’ou send.” 

“Where?” 

Jacques Collin read the heart of the attorney -gen- 
eral, and he continued on the same lines : — 

“You have promised me the commutation of Calvi’s 
death sentence to one of twent}’ years at the galleys. 
Oh ! I am not reminding 3’ou of that as a bargain,” 
he said quickl}’, answering a gesture of the attorne}’- 
general ; “but that life ought to be saved for other 
reasons ; the young man is innocent.” 

“ How can I obtain the letters?” asked the attorne}"- 
general. “ It is my dut}’ to know if 3’ou are the man 
3’OU say 3’Ou are. I want 3’ou without conditions — ” 


394 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“Send a confidential man to the quai aux Fleurs; 
he will see on the steps of a hardware shop, at the 
sign of the ‘ Bouclier d’Achille ’ — 

“ The house of the ‘ Bouclier ’? ” 

^‘Yes,” said Jacques Collin, with a bitter smile, “my 
shield and buckler are there. Your man will find an 
old woman on those steps, dressed, as I told you be- 
fore, like a marketwoman of some means, with pen- 
dants in her ears. He must ask for Madame dc Saint- 
Est^ve, — be careful not to forget the de, — and he 
must say to her : ‘ I come from the attorney-general 
for the things you know of.’ You will at once receive 
three sealed packets.” 

“Are all the letters there?” asked Monsieur de 
Granville. 

“Well, well, 3’ou are strong! You haven’t stolen 
3’our office,” said Jacques Collin, smiling. “ I see 3’ou 
think me capable of tricking 3’ou with blank paper. 
You don’t know me!” he added, “but I trust you 
as a son his father.” 

‘‘You will now be taken back to the Conciergerie,” 
said the attorne3^-general, “ and there 3’ou will await 
the decision on your fate.” He rang the bell and said 
to the servant who answered it, “Request Monsieur 
Garnery to come here, if he is in his office.” 

Besides The fort3’-eight commissaries of police, who 
watch over Paris like forty-eight petty providences. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 395 

(hence the nama QuarUd'oeil, quarter of an ej'e, given 
b3’ thieves’ argot, because there are four to each ar- 
rondissement), and not counting the detective police, 
tliere are two commissaries attached to the police 
proper, and two to the courts for the execution of 
delicate missions and occasional!}’ to do the work of the 
examining-judges. These places require men of mid- 
dle age, proved capacity, great morality, and absolute 
discretion. It is one of the miracles performed by 
Providence for the benefit of Paris that natures of 
this kind can alwa3’s be obtained. No description of 
the Palais would be complete without mention of this 
preventive magistrac}’, if we may so call it, which is in 
truth the most powerful auxiliaiy of the law ; for if 
law has, ly the force of things, lost something of its 
ancient pomp and grandeur, we must admit that it has 
gained materiall}'. In Paris, above all, its mechanism 
has been brought to perfection. 

Monsieur de Granville having sent his secretar}’. 
Monsieur de Chargeboeuf, to Lucien’s funeral, he wished 
to substitute a safe man to send upon this new errand, 
and Monsieur Garneiy w’as one of the two commissa- 
ries delegated to the legal service. , 

“Monsieur le comte,” said Jacques Collin, “ I have 
proved to 3’ou that I have my point of honor. You 
gave me liberty to go and I returned. It is now eleven 
o’clock ; the mortuaiy mass for Lucien must be nearly 


396 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

over, and they will take him to the cemeteiy. Instead 
of sending me to the Coneiergerie, permit me to accom- 
pany the body of that child to Pere-Lachaise. I will 
return and give myself up a prisoner.’* 

“ You ma}" go,” said Monsieur de Granville, in a 
voice full of kindness. 

‘‘ One word more. The mone}'^ of that girl, Esther 
Gobseck, was not stolen. During the half-hour’s free- 
dom you gave me this morning, I questioned her ser- 
vants. I am as sure of them as^-ou are of your agents. 
You will undoubtedly find the money said to be stolen 
in Mademoiselle Esther’s room, when the seals are re- 
moved. Her maid tells me that she was very secretive 
and distrustful, and I make no doubt that the bank-bills 
are hidden in her bed. Let it be well examined, open 
the mattress and pillows, and you will find the money.’’ 

“ Are you sure of that?” 

“ I am sure of the relative honesty of my scamps ; 
they never venture to cheat me. I have the power of 
life and death over them. I judge and condemn and 
execute without all 3 'our formalities. You shall soon 
see the effects of ny^ power. I will recover for you 
the sums stolen from the Crottats ; I will serre mar- 
ron (catch red-hhnded) one of Bibi-Lupin’s agents, 
his right arm ; and I will give 3 ’ou the secret of the 
the crime committed at Nanterre. Isn’t all that a 
pledge? Now, if 3 ’ou will put me in the service of the 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 397 

law and the police, at the end of a 3'ear you will be 
glad of 3’our resolution. I will be honestly what I 
ought to be ; and I shall know how to succeed in all 
the affairs confided to me.” 

“ I cannot promise 3’ou anything but mj^ own good- 
will in the matter. What you ask does not depend 
on me alone. To the king, on receiving the report of 
the Keeper of the Seals, belongs the sole right to par- 
don, and the place 3-00 ask for is in the gift of the pre- 
fect of police.” 

“ Monsieur Garneiy,” announced the office servant. 

On a sign from the attorne3’-general, the commissary 
entered, gave Jacques Collin the glance of a connois- 
seur, and could hardl3’ repress his surprise when Mon- 
sieur de Granville said to the ex-convict : — 

“You may go.” 

“Will 3’ou permit me,” said Jacques Collin, “to 
wait here till Monsieur Garner3’ brings 3’ou that which 
is m3' strength? I should be glad to carry awa3' with 
me a proof of your satisfaction.” 

This humility and good faith touched the attorne3’- 
general. “Go,” he said; “1 am sure of you.” 

Jacques Collin bowed with the submission of an in- 
ferior to his superior. Ten minutes later Monsieur de 
Granville had in his possession the three packages of 
letters, each sealed up and intact. But the importance 
of the affair and the sort of confession made to him 


398 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

by Jacques Collin bad, as he now recollected, caused 
him to forget the latter’s promise of curing Madame 
de Seriz3^ 

Once outside those walls, Jacques Collin became 
conscious of an incredible sense of well-being. He felt 
himself free and born to a new life. He walked rapidl}^ 
from the Palais to the church of Saint-Germain des 
Pres, where the mass was over. They were sprinkling 
the coffin with hol^'-water, and he arrived in time to 
share in that Christian farewell to the remains of the 
child he cherished so tenderh\ Then he got into one 
of the coaches and followed the bod}^ to the cemeter3'. 

At funeral ceremonies in Paris, unless under extra- 
ordinar3' circumstances, like the death of some cele- 
brated man, the crowd which attends in the church 
does not follow to the cemeter3*. People have time 
for the church service ; but their own affairs are press- 
ing, and the3" return to them as soon as possible. So, 
out of ten mourning-coaches on this occasion, only four 
were occupied. When the procession reached Pere- 
Lachaise, not more than a dozen persons surrounded 
the grave, among whom was Rastignac. 

“You are faithful to him,” said Jacques Collin to 
his former iicquaintance. 

Rastignac gave a start of surprise on seeing Vautrin 
beside him. 

“ Be calm,” said Madame Vauquer’s former boarder. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


399 


“you have a slave in me, if only because I find 3’ou 
here. M3’ support is not to be despised ; I am, or 
shall be, more powerful than ever. You’ve slipped 
3’our cable, 3’ou have been clever, but 3’ou may, some 
time or other, want me, and I will alwa3’s serve you.” 

What are 3’ou going to be?” 

The purveyor of the galle3’s, instead of theiiTodger,” 
replied Jacques Collin. 

Rastignac made a motion of disgust. 

“ Suppose 3’OU are robbed? ” 

Rastignac walked on quickl3’ to get away from 
Jacques Collin. 

“You don’t know under what circumstances you 
ma3’ find yourself,” said the ex-convict. 

They had now reached the grave dug for Lucien 
beside that of Esther. 

“Two beings who loved each other and were happy,” 
said Jacques Collin. “They are reunited. It is a 
hapi)iness even to rot together. I will lie there, too.” 

When Lucien’s body was lowered into the grave 
Jacques Collin fell rigid and unconscious. That strong 
being could not bear tlie slight rattle of the earth which 
tlie grave-diggers threw upon the coffin in order to de- 
mand their fees. 

At that moment two members of the detective police 
force came up, and recognizing the ex-abb6, the3’ 
lifted him into a coach and took him away with them. 


400 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 

“ What is it now?” asked Jacques Collin, when he 
recovered consciousness. He looked about the coach 
and recognized the police agentsj one of whom was 
Ruffard. 

“ Merely' that the attorney-general is asking for you,” 
replied Ruffard. “We looked everywhere, and only 
found you in the cemetery, where 3011 came near 
pitching head-foremost into the grave of that 3'oung 
man.” 

Jacques Collin was silent. 

“ Did Bibi-Lupin send you for me?” he asked pres- 
ently of the other police-agent. 

“ No, it was Monsieur Garner3\” 

“ Did he say anything to 3'ou? ” 

The two agents consulted each other with expressive 
pantomime. 

“ Come, tell me, how did he give the order?” 

“ He told us to find you immediately,” replied Ruf- 
fard, “saying that you were either in the church of 
Saint-Germain des Pres, or at the cemetery.” 

“ The attorne3'-general had asked for me? ” 

“ Perhaps so.” 

“Yes, that’s it,” said Jacques Collin, “he wants 
me ; ” and he fell back into a silence that much dis- ' 
quieted the two agents. 

About half-past two o’clock, Jacques Collin re-en- 
tered the attorney-general’s office, and there saw a new 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 


401 


personage, Comte Octave de Bauvan, one of the judges 
of the court of appeals. 

“ You forgot that you promised to relieve Madame 
de Serizy’s mind from its present danger,” said the 
attorney-general, when he saw him. 

“Ask those two men. Monsieur le comte, where they 
found me,” said Jacques Collin, signing to the police- 
agents to enter the office. 

“Lying unconscious, Monsieur le comte, beside the 
grave of the young man the}’ were burying.” 

“ That will do,” said the attorney -general, motioning 
to the men to leave the office. 

“ Relieve Madame de Serizy’s mind,” said Monsieur 
de Bauvan to Jacques Collin, “and you shall have 
what 3’ou ask.” 

“ I ask nothing,” replied Jacques Collin. “ I sur- 
rendered at discretion, and Monsieur le comte must 
have received — ” 

“ All the letters ! ” said Monsieur de Granville, “ but 
you said that j'ou could relieve Madame de Serizy’s 
mind and save her reason. Can you? or was that 
mere bravado?” 

“I hope I can,” replied Jacques Collin, modestl}’. 

“ Then come with me to her house,” said Comte 
Octave. 

“No, monsieur,” said Jacques. “I am still a con- 
vict, and I will not enter a carriage with 3’ou. If I de- 

26 


402 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 

sire to serve the police and the law I shall not begin 
by insulting it. Go yourself to Madame la comtesse ; I 
shall be there soon after 3 ’ou. Sa^" to her that Lucien’s 
best friend, the Abba Carlos Herrera will call to see 
her. The expectation of that visit will necessarily 
make an impression upon her, and be favorable to the 
result. You will excuse me for once more playing the 
part of the Spanish priest; it is for the purpose of 
doing 3 'OU a great service.” 

“I will meet 3 'ou there at four o’clock,” said Mon- 
sieur de Granville. “I must now go to the king with 
the Keeper of the Seals.” 

Jacques Collin took a coach and drove to the quai 
Malaquais. There he went up to the little room on the 
fourth floor where he himself had lodged, which was 
separate from Lucien’s apartment. The porter, much 
astonished at seeing him again, wanted to talk about 
the many events which had happened. 

“ I know all,” said the abbe. “ I was compromised, 
notwithstanding the sanctity of my character. But, 
thanks to the intervention of the Spanish ambassador, 
I am now at libert}’.” 

He went hurriedly to his room, where he took from 
the cover of a breviaiy a certain letter which Lncien 
had written to Madame de Seriz\’ when the latter had 
dismissed him in disgrace after seeing him at the Opera- 
house with Esther. 


The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 403 

In his anxiet}’ and despair at the position in which 
he was beginning to find himself, Lucien had not sent 
the lettej’, believing it to be useless, but Jacques Collin 
had read that poetical masterpiece, and as whatever 
Lucien wrote was sacred to him, he had slipped the 
letter under cover of his breviaiy. When Monsieur 
de Granville spoke to him of Madame de Serizy’s state, 
his profound mind rightly believed that the despair 
and madness of the countess came from remorse for 
the quarrel she had allowed to go on between Lucien 
and herself. He knew women as magistrates know 
criminals ; he could guess, like them, the hidden springs 
of the heart, and he thought at once that Madame 
de Serizy probably believed that Lucien ’s death was 
caused by her unkindness, and was bitterh’ remorseful 
for it. The proof given by Lucien’s poetic letter that 
in spite of her rigor he still relied upon her and loved 
her, would probabl}" restore her reason. 

The entrance of this dangerous personage to the 
hotel de Serizy was a shock as w’ell as a hope to the 
Comte de Seriz}’ and to his friend Comte Octave de 
Bauvan, who alone were present, all others having been 
sent awa3'. Jacques Collin had changed his clothes. 
He now wore a coat and trousers of. black cloth, and 
his demeanor, looks, and gestures were entire!}’ in keep- 
ing with his assumed pfbfession. He bowed to the two 
statesmen and asked if he might enter the countess’s 


room. 


404 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

“ She expects you/' said Monsieur de Bauvan. 

After a conference of half an hour, Jacques Collin 
opened the door and said : — 

“ Come in, messieurs ; there is nothing more to fear.” 

The countess held the letter to her heart ; she was 
calm, and apparently reconciled with herself. The 
count gave a sigh of relief. 

“That's what they are, these men who de/)ide our 
destiny and that of the peoples ! ” tliought Jacques 
Collin, shrugging his shoulders as the door closed on 
the two friends and he found himself alone in the salon. 
“ A female tear turns their intellect inside-out like 
a glove ! They lose their heads at a glance I The fan- 
cies of a woman act and react on the State ! Oh ! what 
strength a man acquires when he has withdrawn him- 
self, as I have, from tliose childish tyrannies, those 
pretended virtues overthrown hy passion, those candid 
wickednesses, those wiles of savages ! Woman, with 
the genius of an executioner her talent for torturing 
is, and ever will be the destruction of man. Attorne}*- 
general, minister of state, judge of appeals, — here 
they all are, blinded, fooled, twisting and turning every- 
thing to get back the letters of a duchess and a girl, 
and restore the reason of a woman who is madder 
when she has her senses than when she loses them.” 
He smiled derisivel}’. “And the}^ believe in me,” he 
continued. “ They obe}’ my promptings ; I shall have 


The Last Incarnation of Vantrin, 405 

that place. I shall still reign in this world which for 
twenty-five years has been at my feet.” 

He was left alone a whole hour, forgotten, in that 
salon. Then Monsieur de Granville came and found 
him standing there, sombre and lost in revery, as a 
man may well be when he makes an 18 th Brumaire 
in his life. 

The attorne3*-general went to the threshold of the 
countess’s room and remained there a few moments ; 
then he returned to Jacques Collin and said : — 

“ Do you persist in 3’our intentions?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Very good ; then you will take Bibi-Lupin’s place ; 
and the penalty of the condemned man Calvi is re- 
mitted.” 

“He will not go to Rochefort?” 

“ Not even to Toulon. You ma}’ cmplo}' him in 
3’our service. But these pardons and your appointment 
will depend on your conduct for the next six months, 
during which time 3’ou will act as assistant to Bibi- 
Lupin. 

Within a week, Bibi-Lupin’s assistant had enabled 
the authorities to restore four hundred thousand francs 
to the Crottat famil3’, and Ruffard and Godet were 
denounced. 

The mone3’ of Esther Gobseck was found in her bed, 
and the Comte de Seriz3^ paid over to Jacques Collin 


406 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 

the three hundred thousand francs bequeathed to him 
by Lucien de Rubempre. 

The monument ordered by Lucien for Esther and 
himself is thought to be one of the finest in Pere- 
Lachaise ; the ground below it is reserved for Jacques 
Collin. 

After exercising his functions for about fifteen years, 
Jacques Collin retired in 1845. 


THE END. 


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25al3ac in <!En0lijSJ>. 

Memoirs of Two Young Married Women. 

By Honore de Balzac. 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 12 mo. 
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“There are,” says Henry James in one of his essays, “two writers in 
Balzac, — the spontaneous one and the reflective one, the former of 
which is much the more delightful, while the latter is the more extraordi- 
nary.” It is the reflective Balzac, the Balzac with a theory, whom we 
get in the “Deux Jeunes Mariees,” now translated by Miss Wormeley 
under the title of “Memoirs of Two Young Married Women.” The' 
theory of Balzac is that the marriage of convenience, properly regarded, 
is far preferable to the marriage simply from love, and he undertakes to 
prove this proposition by contrasting the careers of two young girls who 
have been fellow-students at a convent. One of them, the ardent and 
passionate Louise de Chaulieu, has an intrigue with a Spanish refugee, 
finally marries him, kills him, as she herself confesses, by her perpetual 
jealousy and exaction, mourns his loss bitterly, then marries a golden- 
haired youth, lives with him in a dream of ecstasy for a year or so, and 
this time kills herself through jealousy wrongfully inspired. As for her 
friend, Renee de Maucombe, she dutifully makes a marriage to please her 
parents, calculates coolly beforehand how many children she will have and 
how they shall be trained; insists, however, that the marriage shall be 
merely a civil contract till she and her husband find that their hearts are 
indeed one; and sees all her brightest visions realized, — her Louis an 
ambitious man for her sake and her children truly adorable creatures. 
The story, which is told in the form of letters, fairly scintillates with 
brilliant sayings, and is filled with eloquent discourses concerning the 
nature of love, conjugal and otherwise. Louise and Renee are both 
extremely sophisticated young women, even in their teens ; and those 
who expect to find in their letters the demure innocence of the .Anglo- 
Saxon type will be somewhat astonished. The translation, under the 
circumstances, was rather a daring attempt, but it has been most felicit- 
ously done. — The Beacon. 


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THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 

By Honore de Balzac. 

I • 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. ' i2mo. 
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Once more tliat wonderful acquaintance which Balzac had with all callings 
appears manifest in this work. Would you get to the bottom of the engineer’s 
occupation in France? Balzac presents it in the whole system, with its aspects, 
disadvantages, and the excellence of the work accomplished. We write to-day 
of irrigation and of arboriculture as if they were novelties : yet in the waste lands 
of Montagnac, Balzac found these topics; and what he wrote is the clearest 
exposition of the subjects. 

But, above all, in “The Village Rector” is found the most potent of religious 
ideas, — the one that God grants pardon to sinners. Balzac had studied and 
appreciated the intensely human side of Catholicism and its adaptiveness to the 
wants of mankind. It is religion, with Balzac, “ that opens to us an inexhaustible 
treasure of indulgence.” It is true repentance that saves. 

The drama which is unrolled in “The Village Rector” is a terrible one, and 
perhaps repugnant to our sensitive minds. The selection of such a plot, pitiless 
as it is, Balzac made so as to present the darkest side of human nature, and to 
show how, through God’s pity, a soul might be saved. The instrument of mercy 
is the Rector Bonnet, and in the chapter entitled “The Rector at Work” he 
shows how religion “ extends a man’s life beyond the world.” It is not sufficient 
to weep and moan. “That is but the beginning; the end is action.” The 
rector urges the woman whose sins are great to devote what remains of her life 
to work for the benefit of her brothers and sisters, and so she sets about reclaim- 
ing the waste lands which surround her chateau. With a talent of a superlative 
order, which gives grace to Veronique, she is like the Madonna of some old panel 
of Van Eyck’s. Doing penance, she wears close to her tender skin a haircloth 
vestment. For love of her, a man has committed murder and died and kept his 
secret. In her youth, Veronique’s face had been pitted, but Iier saintly life had 
obliterated that spotted mantle of smallpox. 'Fears had washed out every blemish. 
If through true repentance a soul was ever saved, it was Veronique’s. This 
work, too, has afforded consolation to many miserable sinners, and showed them 
the way to grace. 

'Fhe present translation is to be cited for its wonderful accuracy and its literary 
distinction. We can hardly think of a more difficult task than the Englishing of 
Balzac, and a general reading public should be grateful for the admirable manner 
in which Miss Wormeley has performed her task. — New York Times. 


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. BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


THE BROTHERHOOD OP COHSOUTION. 

{L'ENVERS DE L’H/STOIRE CONJEMPORMNE.) 

By HONORE DE BALZAC. 

t. Madame de la Chanterie. 2. The Initiate. Translated by 
Katharine Prescott Wormeley. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, 

There is no book of Balzac which is informed by a loftier spirit than 
“ L’Envers de I’Histoire Contemporaine,” which has just been added by Miss 
Wormeley to her admirable series of translations under the title, “The Brother- 
hood of Consolation.’' The title which is given to the translation is, to our 
thinking, a happier one than that which the work bears in the original, since, after 
all, the political and historical portions of the book are only the background of the 
other and more absorbing theme, — the development of the brotherhood over 
which Madame de la Chanterie presided. It is true that there is about it all 
something theatrical, something which shows the French taste for making godli- 
ness itself histrionically effective, that quality of mind which would lead a Parisian 
to criticise the coming of the judgment angels if their entrance were not happily 
arranged and properly executed ; but in spite of this there is an elevation such as 
it is rare to meet with in literature, and especially in the literature of Balzac’s age 
and land. The story is admirably told, and the figure of the Baron Bourlac is 
really noble in its martyrdom of self-denial and heroic patience. The picture of 
the Jewish doctor is a most characteristic piece of work, and shows Balzac’s 
intimate touch in every line. Balzac was always attracted by the mystical side 
of the physical nature ; and it might almost be said that everything that savored 
of mystery, even though it ran obviously into quackery, had a strong attraction 
for him. He pictures Halpersohn with a few strokes, but his picture of him has 
a striking vitality and reality. The volume is a valuable and attractive addition to 
the series to which it belongs; and the series comes as near to fulfilling the ideal 
of what translations should be as is often granted to earthly things. — Boston 
Co7irier. 

The book, which is one of rare charm, is one of the most refined, while at the 
same time tragic, of all his works. — Public Opinion. 

His present work is a fiction beautiful in its conception, just one of those 
practical ideals which Balzac nourished and believed in. There never was greater 
homage than he pays to the book of books, “ The Imitation of Jesus Christ.” 
Miss Wormeley has here accomplished her work just as cleverly as in her other 
volumes of Balzac. — N. Y. Times. 


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BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 

A Great Man of the Provinces in Paris. 

By HONORE DE BALZAC. 

Being the second part of “ Lost Illusions.” Translated by Kath- 
arine Prescott Wormeley. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, ^1.50. 

We are beginning to look forward to the new translations of Balzac by Katha- 
rine Wormeley almost as eagerly as to the new works of the best contemporary 
writers. But, unlike the writings of most novelists, Balzac’s novels cannot be 
judged separately. They belong together, and it is impossible to understand the 
breadth and depth of the great writer’s insight into human life by reading any 
one volume of this remarkable series. For instance, we rise from the reading of 
this last volume feeling as if there was nothing high or noble or pure in life. But 
what would be more untrue than to fancy that Balzac was unable to appreciate 
the true and the good and the beautiful ! Compare “ The Lily of the Valley ” 
or “ Seraphita ” or “ Louis Lambert” with “The Duchesse of Langeais’’ and 
“ Cousin Bette,” and then perhaps the reader will be able to criticise Balzac with 
some sort of justice. — Boston Transcript. 

Balzac paints the terrible verities of life with an inexorable hand. The siren 
charms, the music and lights, the feast and the dance, are presented in voluptu- 
ous colors — but read to the end of the book! There are depicted with equal 
truthfulness the deplorable consequences of weakness and crime. Some have 
read Balzac’s “Cousin Bette” and have pronounced him immoral; but when 
the last chapter of any of his novels is read, the purpose of the whole is clear, and 
immorality cannot be alleged. Balzac presents life. His novels are as truthful 
as they are terrible. — Springfield U nion. 

Admirers of Balzac will doubtless enjoy the mingled sarcasm and keen analy- 
sis of human nature displayed in the present volume, brought out with even more 
than the usual amount of the skill and energy characteristic of the author. — 
Pittsburgh Post. 

The art of Balzac, the wonderful power of his contrast, the depth of his 
knowledge of life and men and things, this tremendous story illustrates. How 
admirably the rise of the poet is traced ; the crescendo is perfect in gradation, yet 
as inexorable as fate! As for the fall, the effect is more depressing than a 
personal catastrophe. This is a book to read over and over, an epic of life in 
prose, more tremendous than the blank verse of “ Paradise Lost ” or the 
“Divine Comedy.” Miss Wormeley and the publishers deserve not congratula- 
tions alone, but thanks for adding this book and its predecessor, “ Lost Illusions,” 
to the literature of English. — San Francisco Wave. 


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BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


Lost Illnsions ; Tlie Two Foots, M Eve M Davil 

By HONORE DE BALZAC. 

Being the twenty-third volume of Miss Wormeley’s translation of 
Balzac’s novels. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, ^1.50. 

For her latest translation of the Balzac fiction cycle, Miss Wormeley gives us 
the first and third parts of “ Illusion Perdue,” under the caption of “ Lost 
Illusions,” namely, “The Two Poets ” and “ Eve and David.” This arrange- 
ment is no doubt a good one, for the readers are thus enabled to follow the consecu- 
tive fortunes of the Angouleme folk, while the adventures of Eve’s poet-brother, 
Lucien, which occur in Paris and make a tale by themselves, are thus left for a 
separate publication. The novel, as we have it, then, belongs to the category of 
those scenes from provincial life which Balzac found so stimulating to his genius. 
This story, certainly, in some respects takes high rank among them. The 
character-drawing is fine: Lucien, the ambitious, handsome, weak-willed, selfish, 
and easily-sinning young bourgeois, is contrasted with David, — a touching picture 
of the struggling inventor, born of the people and sublimely one-purposed and 
pure in his life. Eve, the type of a faithful large-brained and larger-hearted wife, 
who supports her husband through all his hardships with unfaltering courage and 
kindness, is another noble creation. David inherits a poorish printing business 
from his skin-flint of a father, neglects it while devoting all his time and energy to 
his discovery of an improved method of making paper ; and through the evil 
machinations of the rival printing firm of the Cointets, as well as the debts foisted 
on him by Lucien in Paris, he is brought into money difficulties and even into 
prison. But his invention, although sold at a sacrifice to the cunning Cointets, 
gets him out of the hole at last, and he and his good wife retire on a comfortable 
competency, which is augmented at the death of his father into a good-sized 
fortune. The seamy side of law in the provinces is shown up in Balzac’s keen, 
inimitable way in the description of the winding of the coils around the unsuspect- 
ing David and the depiction of such men as the brothers Cointets and the shrewd 
little petifogging rascal. Petit Claud. The pictures of Angouleme aristocratic 
circles, too, with Lucien as high priest, are vivacious, and show the novelist’s 
wonderful observation i«i all ranks of life. The bit of wild romance by which 
Lucien becomes the secretary of a Spanish grandee lends a fairy-tale flavor to tne 
main episodes. Balzac, in whom is united the most lynx-eyed realism and the 
most extravagant romanticism, is ever and always one of the great masters in 
fiction of our century. 


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Balzac t7t English. 


PIERRETTE 

AND 

Thh Vicar of Tours, 

BY HONORfi DE BALZAC. 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 


In Pierrette., which Miss Wormeley has added to her series of felicitous 
translations from the French master-fictionists, Balzac has made within 
.brief compass a marvellously sympathetic study of the martyrdom of a 
young girl. Pierrette, a flower of Brittany, beautiful, pale, and fair and 
sweet, is taken as an undesired charge by sordid-minded cousins in Pro- 
vins, and like an exotic transplanted into a harsh and sour so»l she withers 
and fades under the cruel conditions of her new environment. Inciden- 
tally Balzac depicts in vivid colors the struggles of two shop-keepers — a 
brother and sister, who have amassed a little fortune in Paris — to gain a 
foothold among the bourgeoisie of their native town. These two become 
the prey of conspirators for political advancement, and the rivalries thus 
engendered shake the small provincial society to its centre. Put the 
charm of the tale is in the portrayal of the character of Pierretve, who 
understands only how to love, and who cannot live in an atmosphere of 
suspicion and ill-treatment. The story is of course sad, but its fidelity to 
life and the pathos of it are elements of unfailing interest. Balzac brings 
a score or more of people upon the stage, shows each one as he or she 
really is both in outward appearance and inward nature, and then allows 
motives and circumstances to work out an inevitable result. To watch 
this process is like being present at some wonderful chemical experiment 
where the ingredients are mixed with a deft and careful hand, and combine 
to produce effects of astonishing significance. The social genesis of the 
old maid in her most abhorrent form occupies much of Balzac’s attention 
in Pierrette., and this theme also has a place in the story of The Vicar oj 
Tours., bound up in this same volume. The vicar is a simple-minded 
priest who is happy enough till he takes up his quarters with an old maid 
landlady, who pesters and annoys him in many ways, and finally sends him 
forth despoiled of his worldly goods and a laughing-stock for the country- 
side. There is a great deal of humor in the tale, but one must confess 
that the humor is of a rather heavy sort, it being weighed down by a domi- 
nant satirical purpose. — The Beacon. 

One handsome i2ino volume, uniform with “ Pere Goriot,” 
“ The Duchesse de Langeais,” “ Cesar Birotteau,” “ Eugenie 
Grandet,” “ Cousin Pons.” “ The Country Doctor,” “ The Twa 
Brothers,” and “ The Alkahest.” Half morocco, French style. 
Price, $1.50. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 



Messrs, Roberts Brothers' Ptiblications, 


A MEMOIR OF HONORE DE BALZAC. 


Compiled and written by Katharine Prescott Wormeley, translator 
of Balzac’s works. With portrait of Balzac, taken one hour after 
death, by Eugene Giraud, and a Sketch of the Prison of the College 
de Venddme. One volume, izmo. Half Russia, uniform with our 
edition of Balzac’s works. Price, 

A complete life of Balzac can probably never be written. The sole object ot 
the present volume is to present Balzac to American readers. This memoir is 
meant to be a presentation of the man, — and not of his work, except as it was a 
part of himself, — derived from authentic sources of information, and presented in 
tlieir own words, with such simple elucidations as a close intercourse with Balzac’s 
mind, necessitated by conscientious translation, naturally gives. The portrait 
in this volume was considered by Madame de Balzac the best likeness of her 
husband. 

Miss Wormeley’s discussion of the subject is of value in many ways, and it has 
long been needed as a help to comprehension of his life and character. Person- 
ally, he lived up to his theory. His life was in fact austere. Any detailed ac- 
count of the conditions under which he worked, such as are given in this volume, 
will show that this must have been the case ; and the fact strongly reinforces the 
doctrine. Miss Wormeley, in arranging her account of his career, has, almost 
of necessity, made free use of the letters and memoir published by Balzac’s sister, 
Madame Surville. She has also, whenever it would serve the purpose of illus- 
tration better, quoted from the sketches of him by his contemporaries, wisely 
rejecting the trivialities and frivolities by the exaggeration of which many of his 
first chroniclers seemed bent upon giving the great author a kind of opera-bouffe 
aspect. To judge from some of these accounts, he was flighty, irresponsible, 
possibly a little mad, prone to lose touch of actualities by the dominance of his 
imagination, fond of wild and impracticable schemes, and altogether an eccentric 
and unstable person. But it is not difficult to prove that Balzac was quite a 
different character ; that he possessed a marvellous power of intellectual organi- 
zation ; that he was the most methodical and indefatigable of workers ; that he 
was a man of a most delicate sense of honor; that his life was not simply de- 
voted to literary ambition, but was a martyrdom to obligations which were his 
misfortune, but not his fault. 

All this Miss Wormley has well set forth ; and in doing so she has certainly 
relieved Balzac of much unmerited odium, and has enabled those who have not 
made a study of his character and work to understand how high the place is in 
any estimate of the helpers of modern progress and enlightenment to which his 
genius and the Icfftiness of his aims entitle him. This memoir is a very modest 
biography, though a very good one. The author has effaced herself as much as 
possible, and has relied upon “documents” whenever they were trustworthy. — 
JV. y. Tribune. 


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Balzac in English 


Albert Savarus, with Paz (La Fausse 
Maitresse) and Madame Firmiani. By 

Honore de Balzac. Translated by Katharine Prescott 
VVormeley. 

There is much in this, one of the most remarkable of his books, 
which is synonymous with Balzac’s own life. It is the story of a man’s 
first love for woman, his inspirer, the source from whom he derives 
his power of action. It also contains many details on his habits of 
life and work. 

The three short stories in this volume, — ‘Albert Savarus,’ ‘Paz’ and ‘Madame 
Firmiani’ — are chips from that astounding workshop which never ceased its Hephoes- 
tian labors and products until Balzac was no more Short stories of this character 
flew from his glowing forge like sparks from an anvil, the playthings of an idle hour, 
the interludes of a more vivid drama. Three of them gathered here illustrate as 
usual Parisian and provincial life, two in a very noble fashion, Balzacian to the core. 
The third — ‘Albert Savarus’ — has many elements of tragedy and grandeur in it, 
spoiled only by an abruptness in the conclusion and an accumulation of unnecessary 
horrors that chill the reader. It is a block of tragic marble hewn, not to a finish, but 

to a fine prophetic suggestion of what is to follow if ! The if never emerges 

from conditionality to fulfilment. The beautiful lines and sinuous curves of the 
nascent statue are there, not fully born of the encasing stone ; what sculptors call the 
‘tenons’ show in all their visibility — the supports and scaffoldings reveal their 
presence ; the forefront is finished as in a Greek metope or Olympian tympanum, 
where broken Lapiths and Centaurs disport themselves ; but the background is rude 
and primitive 

In ‘ Madame Firmiani’ a few brilliant pages suffice to a perfect picture, — one of 
the few spotless pictures of this superb yet sinning magician so rich in pictures. It is 
French nature that Balzac depicts, warm with all the physical impulses, undisguised 
in its assaults on the soul, ingeniously sensual, odiously loose in its views of marriage 
and the marriage relation, but splendidly picturesque. In this brief romance noble 
words are wedded to noble music. In ‘Paz’ an almost equal nobility of thought — 
the nobility of self-renunciation — is attained. Balzac endows his men and women 
with happy millions and unhappy natures: the red ruby — the broken heart — blazes 
in a setting of gold. ‘ Paz,’ the sublime Pole who loves the wife of his best friend, 
a Slav Croesus, is no exception to the rule. The richest rhetoric, the sunniest colors, 
fail to counteract the Acherontian gloom of these lives and sorrows snatched from the 
cauldron of urban and rural France, — a cauldron that burns hotter than any other 
with its strange Roman and Celtic ardors. Balzac was perpetually dipping into it and 
drawing from it the wonderful and extraordinary incidents of his novels, incidents often 
monstrous in their untruth if looked at from any other than a French point of view. 
Thus, the devilish ingenuity of the jealous woman in ‘ Albert Savarus’ would seem 
unnatural anywhere else than in the sombre French provinces of 1836, — a toadstool 
sprung up in the rank moonlight of the religious conventual system of education for 
women ; but there, and then, and as one result of this system of repression, it 
seems perfectly natural. And so does the beautiful self-abnegation of Albert himself, 
that high-strung soul that could have been born only in nervous and passionate 
B'rance. 

As usual. Miss Wormeley’s charming translation floats the reader over these 
pages in the swiftest and airiest manner. — The Critic. 

One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with “ Pere Goriot,” “ The 
Duchesse de Langeais,” “ Cesar Birotteau,” “ Eugenie Grandet,” 
« Cou.sin Pons,” “ The Country Doctor,” “ The Two Brothers,” and 
“The Alkahest.” Half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston- 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


An Historic^ Mystery. 

Translated by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

12mo. Half Russia. Uniform with Balzac’s Works. Price, $1.50. 


An Historical Mystery the title given to “ Une Tdndbreuse Affaire,” which 
has jiist appeared in the series of translations of Honor^ de Balzac’s novels, by 
Katharine Prescott Wormeley This exciting romance is full of stirring interest, 
and is distinguished by that minute analysis of character in which its eminent 
author excelled. The characters stand boldly out from the surrounding incidents, 
and with a fidelity as wonderful as it is truthful. Plot and counterplot follow 
each other with marvellous rapidity; and around the exciting days when Na- 
poleon was First Consul, and afterward when he was Emperor, a mystery is 
woven in which some royalists are concerned that is concealed with masterly 
ingenuity until the novelist sees fit to take his reader into his confidence. The 
heroine, Laurence, is a remarkably strong character; and the love-story in which 
she figures is refreshing in its departure from the beaten path of the ordinary 
writer of fiction. Michu, her devoted servant, has also a marked individuality, 
which leaves a lasting impression. Napoleon, Talleyrand, Fouch^, and other 
historical personages, appear in the tale in a manner that is at once natural and 
fmpressii^e. As an addition to a remarkable series, the book is one that no 
admirer of Balzac can afford to neglect. Miss Wormeley’s translation reproduces 
the peculiarities of the author’s style with the faithfulness for which she has 
hitherto been celebrated. — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

It makes very interesting reading at this distance of time, however; and Balzac 
has given to the legendary account much of the solidity of history by his adroit 
manipulation. For the main story it must be said that the action is swifter and 
more varied than in many of the author’s books, and that there are not wanting 
many of those cameo-like portraits necessary to warn the reader against slovenly 

f )erusal of this carefully written story; for the complications are such, and the re- 
ations between the several plots involved so intricate, that the thread might 
easily be lost and much of the interest be thus destroyed The usual Balzac 
compactness is of course present throughout, to give body and significance to the 
work, and the stage is crowded with impressive figures. It would be impossible 
to find a book which gives a better or more faithful illustration of one of the 
strangest periods in French history, in short; and its attraction as a story is at 
least equalled by its value as a true picture of the time it is concerned with. The 
translation is as spirited and close as Miss Wormeley has taught us to expect in 
this admirable series. — Neiu York Tribune. 

One of the most intensely interesting novels that Balzac ever wrote is An 
Historical Mystery^ whose translation has just been added to the preceding 
novels that compose the ‘‘Comedie Humaine” so admirably translated b); Miss 
Katharine Prescott Wormeley. The story opens in the autumn of 1803, in the 
time of the Empire, and the motive is in deep-laid political plots, which are re- 
vealed with the subtle and ingenious skill that marks the art of Balzac. . . The 
story is a deep-laid political conspiracy of the secret service of the ministry of 
the police. Talleyrand, M’lle de Cinq-Cygne, the Princess de Cadigan, Louis 
XVIII , as well as Napoleon, figure as characters of this thrilling historic ro- 
mance. An absorbing love-story is also told, in which State intrigue plays an 
important part. The character-drawing is faithful to history, and the story illu- 
minates French life in the early years of the century as if a calcium light were 
thrown on the scene. 

It IS a romance of remarkable power and one of the most deeply fascinating 
of all the novels of the ‘'Comedie Humaine.” 


Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid., on receipt of 
price by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH 


— • — 

Kame and Sorrow, 

©t|)cr SUjrics* 

TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

12010. Half Russia. Uniform with our edition of Balzac’s 
Works. Price, $1.50. In addition to this remarkable story, 
the volume contains the following, namely : “ Colonel Chabert,” 
“ The Atheist’s Mass,” ” La Grande Breteche,” “ The Purse,” and 
" La Grenadi^re.” 

The force and passion of the stories of Balzac are unapproachable. He had 
the art of putting into half a dozen pages all the fire .and stress wliich many 
writers, who are still great, cannot compass in a volume. The present volume is 
an admirable collection, and presents well his power of handling the short story. 
That the translation is excellent need hardly be said — Boston Courier. 

The six storiesj admirably translated by Miss Wormeley, afford good examples 
of Balzac’s work in what not a few critics have thought his chief specialty. It is 
certain that no writer of many novels wrote so many short stories as he ; and it is 
equally as certain that his short stories are, almost without an exception, models 
of what such compositions ought to be. . . No modern author, however, of any 
school whatever, has succeeded in producing short stories half so good as Balzac’s 
best. Balzac did not, indeed, attempt to display his subtility and deftness by 
writing short stories about nothing. Every one of his tales contains an episode, 
not necessarily, but usually, a dramatic episode The first in the present collec- 
tion, better known as “La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote,” is really a short novel. 
It has all the maciiinery, all the interest, all the detail of a regular story. The 
difference is* that it is compressed as Balzac only could compress ; that here and 
there important events, changes, etc., are indicated in a few powerful lines instead 
of being elaborated; that the vital points are thrown into strong relief. Take the 
pathetic story of “Colonel Chabert ” It begins with an elaboration of detail. 
The description of the lawyer’s office might seem to some too minute. But it is 
the stage upon which the Colonel is to appear, and when he enters we see the 
value of the preliminaries, for a picture is presented which the memory seizes and 
holds. As the action progresses, detail is used more parsimoniously, because the 
mise-eK-scene has alreadv been completed, and because, also, the cliaracters once 
clearly described, the development of character and the working of passion can 
be indicated with a few pregnant strokes. Notwithstanding this increasing 
economy of space, the action takes on a swifter intensity, and the culmination of 
the tragedy leaves the reader breathless. 

In “ The Atheist s Mass ’’ we have quite a new kind of story This is rather 
a psychological study than a narrative of action. Two widely distinguished char- 
acters are thrown on the canvas here, — that of the great surgeon and. that of the 
humble patron ; and one knows not which most to admire, the vigor of the 
drawing, or the subtle and lucid psychical analysis. In both there is rare beauty of 
soul, and perhaps, after all, the poor Auvergnat surpasses the eminent surgeon, 
though this is a delicate and difficult question. But how' complete the little story 
is ; how much it tells ; with what skill, and in how delightful a manner ! 'Then 
there is that tremendous haunting legend of “ La Grande Breteche,” a story which 
has always been turned into more languages and twisted into more new forms than 
almost any other of its kind extant. What author has equalled the continuing 
horror of that unfaithful wife’s agony, compelled to look on and assist at the slow 
murder of her entrapped lover? . . Then the death of the husband and wife, — 
the one by quick and fiercer dissipation, the other by simple refusal to live longer, 
— and the abandonment of the accursed dwelling to solitude and decay, complete 
a picture, which for vividness, emotional force, imaginative power, and contpre- 
hensiveness of effects, can be said to have few equals in its own class of fiction. — 
Kansas City Journal. 


Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price, by 
i&c publishers. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS. Bo.ston. 


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